


life's terrific thunder

by cinnabonrollouis



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Torture, but steeb and buck buck get to be parents!!, its mostly canon-compliant but im fucked w/ time soooooo, kind of, sort of, the PTSD will be very scarce mostly bc it makes me super upset, the kids like a teenager, ummm kid fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:11:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabonrollouis/pseuds/cinnabonrollouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes." Steve says firmly, "There is no possible way. My father was dead by the time I was five. I would have known."<br/><br/><br/>Stark loses all semblance of calm and lets out a frustrated noise, pulling at his hair by the roots."Well she's right there! The blue-eyed, blonde-haired, demonic, mini-super-soldier is right there in that room spitting fire and trying eat everyone who comes within five feet of her so there has to be—<em>some</em>—sort of <em>explanation</em> Steven Grant Rogers!" </p><p> </p><p>...or Just when Steve Rogers' life starts to get normal, it's not anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!! 
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in! (Also theres a sequel to this fic called the night is sweet for sleeping that will continue this fic :)))))

_June 22, 1926_  
  
  
_A young woman runs down a city street in the cover of night. She holds a bundle of blankets against her chest as she huffs and puffs; the only sounds are her breathing and feet smacking the pavement. She finally comes to a weary stop in front of a tall, imposing, brown building; Brooklyn’s Home for Orphans. The woman walks up the steps slowly, cradling the blanket bundle close to her chest. She gently opens the folds of the blankets, and caresses the downy cheek of her day-old son. The baby opens his mouth and sighs, but doesn’t wake. The woman, holding in a sob, kisses the baby’s forehead and holds him close._  
  
  
_"I’m so sorry, my love," she thinks as she walks forward and places the baby on the highest step. She pulls a scrap of paper out of her pocket and tucks it under one of the folds of the blanket. She then stands, knocks on the door, takes one last look at her little one, and turns to take off into the night, tears streaming freely down her cheeks._  
  
  
August 15, 2016  
  
  
Steve Rogers inhales sharply when he realizes that the other side of their bed is empty. He crumples the sheet in his fist for a second, then relaxes and uses his hand to push himself out of the pile of pillows he had his face buried in. He sits up and harshly rubs his hand over his face to clear his eyes of sleep. His eyes glance around the room quickly from corner to corner to find—wait. Yup. There he is, curled up in a crescent shape on the floor next to Steve’s side of their bed. Steve scooches off the bed, plops onto the floor, and gently moves Bucky’s head and upper chest onto his lap. Steve grins when Buck doesn’t tense up or push him away; _it’s gonna be a good day_.  
  
  
One hand cupped at Buck’s waist and the other stroking through his now shoulder-length hair, Steve stares unabashedly at the pale, lilac circles painted under his guy’s closed eyes. That’s the one thing that hasn’t changed for the 70 or so years he’s loved this man; Buck always had circles under his eyes that cooled off his pale complexion. Always made him dream and a half to draw.  
  
  
Bucky doesn’t open his eyes or make any change in his breathing, but he does lift his left hand—the metal one—and wraps it around Steve’s waist, pulling him closer so Bucky can press his face into Steve’s stomach. The two sit like that for a time; Steve stroking his boy’s hair and Bucky rubbing his face on the old beater sweatshirt Steve wore to bed the night before, breathing in sync until the sun rises over the windowsill facing their bed. Eventually the light floods the room and hits the side of Bucky’s face, prompting him to unwind himself from Steve and sit up next to him to stare out the window at the clouds.  
  
  
“I don’t know how many more times I have to say it, if you wanna sleep on the floor, wake me. I’ll curl up with you.” Steve says finally, brushing a dark brown wave of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. Buck’s cobalt eyes focus on the floor for a second then glance back over at Steve’s face. “You always look too comfortable. I need to get used to it anyway, it’s been almost two years.” his guy says softly with a delicate shrug of his shoulders.  
  
  
Steve’s face twists up annoyedly, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You can sleep on the floor forever if you want. I don’t care.” Buck grins and pulls Steve closer, dropping a hand around the blonde’s shoulders and turning his head to kiss him softly on the lips. The two bump their foreheads after they break apart, smiling like loons and basking in each other’s morning breath. Bucky pulls away, putting a hand on Steve’s head to boost himself to stand, causing his boy to laugh and smack his hands away.  
  
  
“Punk.” Bucky says, mirth in his eyes. “Make me breakfast. I’m gonna hop in the shower.” he pulls Steve in for another kiss before he make his way to their bathroom, stripping as he goes. Steve chuckles as he walks out of their bedroom and into the kitchen, opening the fridge and scratching his stomach under his shirt as he grabs the ingredients to make cheese and ham omelets. He whistles along to the radio as he cooks, swaying to the beat and pulling out plates and setting them both forks. He hears Buck come up behind him to pull him close, moving his hips with Steve’s as they turn around the kitchen, laughing. Steve soon after shoves him off, saving their breakfast and plating it neatly. The two eat, comfortably bantering and throwing bits of food at each other, laughing and staring at each other like the other hung the moon.  
  
  
The rest of the day passes easily. Bucky reads, falls asleep in the sun, and showers twice more. Steve draws Bucky reading, sleeping in the sun, and joins him in the shower both times. The two contently orbit each other throughout the entire day, and end it next to each other in their bed. Bucky has fallen asleep, curled up snugly in a ball with Steve holding him tight. He always sleeps better like that, he tells Steve it makes him feel smaller; helps him think less.  
  
  
Steve reflects on the state of his life now, the once empty box of his brain filled at every corner with love and family from every person that he knows, most importantly the man in his arms. He tugs Buck a little closer and tucks his face into the space where his boy’s neck and shoulder meet. Buck makes a snuffling noise that’s not quite a snore, and presses his back more firmly against Steve’s front. The blonde smiles into his boy’s skin, counting each and every blessing that brought them both to this moment, to this safe and long-lasting peace. Hard-won peace, but peace all the same.  
  
  
After the Avengers defeated Ultron in Sokovia a year and a half previously, Steve and Bucky had permanently moved themselves into Stark Tower, claiming the highest level possible because Bucky liked to be able to see the sky. Clint and Natasha moved in beneath them, Bruce and Tony practically lived in the lab in the basement, Wanda and Sam shared an apartment not too far into the city, and when Thor wasn’t ruling Asgard, he would bring Jane over for dinner on Thursday nights. Impossibly, life had settled, and somehow despite the nightmares and guilt and fear, he and Bucky had clung to each other harder than they had when they lived in Brooklyn in the winter.  
  
  
_“And thank god for that.”_ Steve thinks as he presses a kiss to his boy’s pulse point, shuts his eyes, and falls asleep to the sound of Buck’s slow, even breathing.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

_June 23, 1926_

_Father Arnold Jacobs walks briskly down the corridors of the orphanage, his cassock flapping gently in the breeze from the open windows along the hall. He knocks on dormitory doors as he passes them, signaling the children inside that they have permission to leave bed and should begin to dress for breakfast._

_He climbs down the steps at the front of the building easily, sauntering over to the front door and unlocking it swiftly, opening it decidedly. But instead of the milk for the week, Father Arnold finds something much different. A baby wrapped in a white knitted blanket, still sleeping, on the front stoop. He immediately reaches down to scoop up the child, holding him delicately when he realizes the infant can’t be more than a few days old. He looks down at the step for some sort of identification, and finds none until he looks at the baby again and sees that a note has been tucked under his arm. He calls a nurse, who he hands the baby over to, and opens the note. Written inside in messy, hurried script are the words “Joseph Rogers.” The priest turns to the nurse, telling her to take him up to the nursery as he hands her the note with the child’s name on it. He returns to his study with a sigh and writes out a birth certificate for the baby, cataloging it with all the rest of the orphanage’s occupants. He stands after, shaking off his sadness for the little baby upstairs who will never know his mother, and instead goes to eat breakfast with the other children._

August 17, 2016

Steve knows something isn’t right before Tony even opens his mouth. He and Buck walk into the main dining room in the center of the Tower and expect to see the one or two of the typical people who seek out social interaction, but instead finds the whole team. Everyone is acting normal, eating and chatting, but Steve has fought and almost died with these people, repeatedly. He knows them, and he can see the slight twist of discomfort in Thor’s mouth, see Sam’s knee bouncing, hear Tony grinding his teeth. He huffs out a sigh and pull out a chair on the side of the table facing the window; that way he knows Bucky will sit down. He clears his throat and raises his eyebrows at Tony as if to say, _“Get on with it, idiot.”_

Tony sighs, “JARVIS, if you would be so kind.”

 _“Of course sir.”_ The AI replies. Steve feels his boy tense up next to him; still uncomfortable with hearing a voice when he can’t see the person. The blonde slides a hand under the table and onto Buck’s thigh, placing it there gently. Buck relaxes a fraction. On the table in front of them, a projection appears of several papers that Steve doesn’t read but recognizes; old SHIELD letterheads. He looks at Tony in confusion as the brunette stands, adjusting his oil-stained henley.

“We’ve been getting signs. I tried to ignore it, hoping that they were just targeting the government or mankind or whatever, but they’ve gotten more and more blatant. These papers have been showing up in the wake of ops. Clint has found two, Natasha has seen a few, and I found one last night.” Tony clears his throat and swipes his hand through the holographic, switching it to a grisly photo of a dead man in a suit, his face covered by an old SHIELD memo that Steve can see, with disgust, is nailed into his forehead. “Obviously we weren’t paying enough attention, so they made a, uh, statement.”

“To say the least.” Steve says, only slightly sarcastically, “What do the documents pertain to?” Tony, again, looks even more uncomfortable, “They seem to be reports about assassinations performed by HYDRA’s best.” Tony says, with a nod to Bucky, who visibly shrinks and tenses his shoulders. Steve uses the hand on Buck’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Buck doesn’t relax.

“What do you mean ‘seem’? Are they about the Winter Soldier or not?” Steve asks tightly. Tony hesitates before saying, “They’re kills with which the Winter Soldier was previously associated, but after having JARVIS look into it, I disagree.” He swipes his hand again, pulling up a one of the reports and some photos; both are obviously older, and Steve glances to see that the date is sometime in the 60’s.

“This agent was investigating an op that brought him within 50 miles of what used to be a major HYDRA base.” Tony pauses, “He was found on the steps of the operating SHIELD office within the next week. Same M.O. as the Soldier, execution style shot, but messier. He was brought to SHIELD instead of just being found. It wasn’t done in a public setting. There were traces of leaves and mud all over him, like he was dragged through some woods. But he was dropped in the middle of, at the time, a fairly large city. And no one saw anything.” He clears his throat, “It’s similar enough to assume the Winter Soldier, but not as clean, not as quick, and not as efficient.” He swipes his hand through the holographic once more, revealing at least 8 or 9 more reports, “As time goes on, the kills get better. Still messy at first, but eventually they fit the M.O. of the Soldier completely. Almost as if they were on a learning curve, despite the fact that the Soldier had started killing at least a decade before the first body, and,” he looks apologetically at Buck, “from what we know, was…out of commission for most of the mid 60’s and early 70’s.” he takes a deep breath, swishes his hand again and more crime scene photos pop up, “But then, in 1976, the Soldier is seen for the first time in a decade.” He shrugs, “SHIELD saw the Soldier and credited all the mystery crimes to him; it gave them less paperwork and someone to blame.”

“So what are you saying? There’s another assassin that HYDRA has had just as long as Bucky and they’ve been using them both in rotation or something?” Steve questions, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as he feels Buck’s thigh tense even harder under his hand.

Tony sighs and presses a button on the table in front of him that makes the holographic disappear. “I don’t know. All I know is data, and this doesn’t add up. Brutal training doesn’t really allow for change in operations. People who are immobile in a block of ice are very rarely capable of murder.” He sits back down, placing his folded hands on the table and leaning forward. “But I’m not sure if we should look into it or not, which is why I’ve brought it to the table.” He looks around the room to make eye-contact with each person briefly, “Whatever the group consensus is will be the plan. Thoughts?”

Thor places a hand on his beard, delicately stroking the strands, “Finding this assassin would help prevent more death, yes? Isn’t that why we were brought together, to prevent death where we can? To protect?”

“True.” Clint replies, leaning back in his chair and pulling out a knife to pick at his fingernails, “But these were obviously planted for us to see. This person, whoever they are, isn’t targeting innocents. They are targeting us.” His eyes flicker over to Bucky, whose eyes are boring a hole in the table as his shoulders shake and his metal hand clenches and unclenches rhythmically on air. “Maybe we should let it be a little longer, see what unfolds. Last thing we need is to fall into some kind of HYDRA trap chasing a false lead.” Natasha nods at this, turning her sharp eyes to Tony, the latter of whom nods in return.

Sam and Bruce share a look and both express the same sentiments as Thor, wishing to prevent loss of life. Steve remains silent as the two sides start to bicker, watching his boy, who hasn’t said a word, and continues to open and shut his fist. Steve leans closer to his face, moving his hand from his thigh to his shoulder and asking softly, “Bucky? What do you want to do?”

Buck stands abruptly, banging a fist on the table that stops the bickering instantly. The rest of the Avengers look at the floor rather than him, cowed, as he says in a cold, flat voice Steve hasn’t heard in months, “I want to tear each head of HYDRA apart, piece by piece.” He looks sharply at Tony, “Do you think investigating this will help?” Tony bites his lip, but nods. “Then we do it.” he then turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, slamming the door as he goes.

Steve huffs out a sigh and puts his head in his hands. Buck hasn’t had a blow up like that in weeks; he would hate to hurt his boy over something that might not even be real. He stands up himself and thanks the others for coming and apologizes for Buck, the latter of whom he knows will be very embarrassed; he always is. Steve walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him, but instead of going upstairs to their floor he goes down, knowing where his guy will go. Steve jogs down three flights of steps instead of taking the elevator; trying to think of what to say. He stops in front of the gym door, takes a deep breath then cautiously pushes open the door.

A cursory glance around the room finds Buck in a corner annihilating a hanging punching bag. He’s not breathing hard but his back is tensed and his left leg shakes when he pauses between hits. Steve lets out a sigh and walks over to him, calling out Buck’s name until he stops punching the bag; his shoulders heaving. Steve stop a foot away from him.  
“Buck?” he asks softly. His boy turns to look at him, but his mouth is set tight and his eyes are chillingly angry. Steve nods toward the boxing ring in the center of the room, eyebrows raised in a silent question. His boy nods sharply and stalks over to it, easily pulling himself over the ropes on the side and waits there. Steve jogs over after him, jumps into the ring, and puts his hand up. Bucky takes the first shot; a swipe to Steve’s left, and they start dancing around each other.

Steve and Bucky discovered boxing as a coping mechanism a few months ago after a particularly hard day. It had been only a few months after Buck had started to remember and semi-permanently live with Steve. He had woken up to an empty room, and he frantically jumped out of bed to tear through their apartment. He couldn’t help the panic and guilt pounding in his veins, thinking _“This is it. He left for good. He’s gone for good. Shit. Shit. He’s gone.”_ He stands in the center of their living room, hands on his head, fighting tears. The loneliness that had disappeared with Bucky back in his life threatens to crush him, pushes the air out of his lungs and tries to choke him. He turns and walks out of the room, no idea what he wants except to not be in the same rooms where he last held the man he loves.

He walks into the gym and is absolutely shocked at what he finds. _“He stayed.”_ His brain screams but he holds it back and looks at his boy, the latter of whom has his back to Steve as he smacks a different punching bag once, then picks it up and throws it at the closest wall with a shout. Steve runs over just as Buck starts throwing weights, mats; anything he can get his hands on.

“Buck!” Steve yells over the clatter, “Buck! Bucky—baby, _Buck._ ” Steve grabs his boy by the shoulders and spun him around to look him in the eye. Buck shoves him off and stalks away, pressing his hands to either side of his head and letting out another yell. Steve follows him, calling Bucky’s name and begging him to stop. But his boy just _can’t_ , he _has_ to do something, it _hurts_ , his head is too full and he needs to feel _something_ , something has to feel _real_.

“You wanna break something Buck?” Steve calls, “Break me. C’mon jerk. Get over here.” Bucky turns this time at the sound of Steve’s voice, and pauses. Then he walks over, slowly, and takes a stance that Steve mirrors. Steve takes the first swipe and Bucky blocks him easily. From there, it grew into something that they did every time Bucky didn’t feel in control. Steve doesn’t get the reason for it entirely, but he’d do anything for his boy. He thinks it has something to do with the consistency; he and Buck have been boxing since they were teens.

Suddenly the Bucky in front of him stops and holds his hand up, breathing a little hard. Steve pauses, takes a step back, and holds his hand out, palm up. It takes a few minutes of them both looking at each other and huffing and puffing, but Buck stands up straight and walks toward Steve, placing his hand in the blonde’s outstretched palm.  
Steve uses the hand to pull him close, and Buck goes easily, tucking his face into Steve’s neck with a soft whimper. Steve shushes him, places a hand on the back of his neck and starts combing gently through Buck’s hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” his boy murmurs over and over between gasps. Steve just holds him a little tighter and shushes him again. “You’re ok baby. Shhh, doll, it’s ok. Shhh.” Buck calms down a little, so Steve gets him some water and walks him upstairs to their floor for a shower and some sleep.

Later when they’re in bed, Buck asleep on Steve’s lap and Steve sitting up tracing the planes of his boy’s face with his hands, Steve starts to think about this mysterious third super-soldier. Someone who has been under HYDRA’s control just as long as his boy. Someone else who has been beaten, brainwashed, starved, and tortured over and over again for the past 60 years. He looks down at the man sleeping on his chest and traces the overlapping white scars carved into his shoulder where his metal arm meets skin. Steve feels a surge of protectiveness, for Buck and for the other super-soldier. _“We’re gonna find you,”_ he thinks, _“And we’re gonna save you.”_


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's POV this time :))
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

_May 10, 1956_

_Joseph Rogers has been told he’s unlucky his whole life._

_Born in the middle of the Great Depression, abandoned by his mother when he was barely a day old, raised by nuns until his 18th birthday when he was immediately drafted and sent to the front lines; having to leave his young pregnant wife at home to fend for herself. But despite the tough hand he’s been dealt, Joe Rogers doesn’t feel unlucky. He’s been through hell and back, but he just feels stronger._

_It’s been ten years since he got home from the war. Ten years since he kissed his Rebecca on the mouth for the first time in two years, ten years since he held his beautiful two year old daughter in his arms for the very first time. The War seems like a lifetime ago; the blood, nightmares, and pain faded far back in his memory and replaced with the first time his baby girl called him Daddy and his son’s first steps._

_His children look so grown now, Joe thinks as he reaches for his wife’s hand. Ahead of him, his girl is playing a game with her brother; letting him chase her around on the sidewalk until she lets him ‘catch’ her. Joe watches his daughter laugh as her brother throws his arms around her middle, her long, thick blonde hair fanning out in a shimmering curtain._

_“Summer, don’t you and your brother get to far ahead now, ok?” he calls to her. Summer Roger’s bright sapphire eyes turn to her father, her smile wide and infectious. “Sure thing, Daddy!” she replies as she tickles her baby brother, the latter of whom howls and runs off. “Scott!” Summer calls at his retreating back, “Wait for Mama and Daddy!” she rushes off in pursuit of him as he heads for the bridge in the center of their park. Scott turns a corner, looking back at his sister instead of where he’s going, and runs straight into someone. The six year old turns to look at the stranger, an apology quick to his lips, but before he can say a thing, the stranger grabs the front and back of his head and snaps his neck; the boy falls like a string-less puppet._

_Summer Rogers races around the corner, ready to chastise her brother for not listening to Daddy, but instead she’s faced with a 6’6” man in all black armor. His hair is long, in his face, and dirty. Summer can barely breathe as he stalks toward her, kicking a small, blond-haired body out of his way. “Scott.” She whispers, her heart hammering in her chest as she backs up clumsily, trying to get away. She then turns and begins to run, a desperate shriek of “Mama! Daddy! Scott is dead! Mama, he’s comin—!” she stops on a dime and lets out a scream when she sees her mother and father face-down in a pool of crimson at her feet. She falls to her knees with a sob and shakes her parents, begging for them to wake, but she’s too late._

_She hears his footsteps behind her and lets her mother’s dead body drop to the ground. She stands in front of their bodies to face him, her blouse drenched in her father’s blood, her eyes pools of hatred and pain._

_“Why would you do this?” she begs him, “Why? Why? Why?” He says nothing in return; his face is solid ice as he lifts his cold gray eyes to her soft blue ones. He levels a gun at her chest and pulls the trigger._

_Summer Rogers hits the ground with a gasp, her mother’s dead face swimming in front of her eyes. She reaches out to touch her skin, breathes in deep to try and get one more whiff of her perfume, but then suddenly she’s in the air. She feels him scoop her up and turn her for a better grip, then toss her over his shoulder. The arm that holds her against him feels hard, cold, and definitely inhuman._

_“I love you, Mama. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Scott.” She whispers to herself. She closes her eyes and lets the whole world go black._

August 30, 2016 

“We found her.” Stark gasps as soon as Steve opens their front door. 

Bucky doesn’t look up from his book, but he hears Steve’s incredulous voice say, “What? When? Why didn’t you tell us you had eyes, we should have all been on the extraction team!” Bucky turns the page without finishing the last paragraph and forces himself to look calm. Stark lets out a frustrated noise as he passes Steve and walks into their apartment. Bucky leans harder into the couch he’s sitting in, quietly shutting his book and setting it on their coffee table. He looks out the window that makes up the west wall of their building and studies the city skyline. He knows Stark and Steve continue to argue behind him but he can’t quite hear them over the thoughts in his head. _“Her.”_ they’re saying. _“We found her. It’s a Her.”_ and the even louder, _“She’s real.”_

He stands up and turns around to see Stark looking desperately at a horrified Steve who is murmuring softly to himself over and over, “It can’t be. No. No, no, no, no. it doesn’t—,” his voice quiet and confused, “It doesn’t make any sense.” 

Stark starts to look a little annoyed now on top of the desperation, “Are you sure, Captain? Are you absolutely sure?” 

“Yes.” Steve says firmly, “There is no possible way. My father was dead by the time I was five. I would have known.” 

Stark loses all semblance of calm and lets out a frustrated noise, pulling at his hair by the roots. “Well she's right there! The blue-eyed, blonde-haired, demonic, mini-super-soldier is right there in that room spitting fire and trying eat everyone who comes within five feet of her so there has to be— _some_ —sort of _explanation_ , Steven Grant Rogers!” 

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks quietly. Steve looks up at him, startled, and runs a slightly shaking hand through his hair. Stark stares daggers at Steve, who opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again, staring off into space. Stark sighs and turns to Bucky, “It appears the Captain has some relatives he was previously unaware of.” 

Bucky squints in confusion at Stark, who clears his throat and elaborates, “We, of course, will need a DNA test to make sure, but we believe the third soldier has genetic similarities to Rogers. Her cells are replicating in the exact same way his do. Well, that, and she has The Dear Captain’s eyes.” Steve looks up at that last sentence, and walks away from Stark to lean on their kitchen island. 

“They’re his mother’s eyes.” Bucky murmurs softly to Stark as he walks past him to Steve. He puts a hand on his guy’s shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb in small circles on his back. Steve turns to look at him and there are tears in his eyes. Bucky pulls him into his chest, hard, for a hug and then let’s go of him just as quick. He puts one hands on each of Steve’s shoulders and looks his best guy in the face, “Let’s go see her. Ok?” Steve nods weakly and makes a small attempt at a smile. 

They follow Stark down to the lab silently. Bucky is holding Steve’s hand, and he can feel his blonde’s heartbeat pounding through his wrist; can see his lip shake at the corner. 

Bucky has gained a new respect for Stark and Banner in the past few weeks. The minute he told them to get to work, they started up something fierce. They tracked the third soldier through every way they possibly could, searching up on the fliers they had been leaving, digging and digging until they starting finding reports on an ‘Asset Two’.  


They were few and far between at first, but eventually they found at least a hundred, mostly blacklisted, reports on the recalibration and testing of the third soldier. Asset Two had begun training in 1956, sent out for her first op in 1959, and put in permanent cyro-freeze by 1974. Research hadn’t shown specific training methods or ops with which she was commissioned, why she had been placed in permanent cyro, or why she had been brought back now, but it did give them an idea of where she would be leaving her next victim. 

Stark and Banner had been watching her signs for a week or so, guessing that she would leave them another body to find by at least next week. But Bucky didn’t think they would get her this soon, or this easily; he remembers exactly how to escape situations that are stacked against his favor, he doesn’t see why the third soldier wouldn’t be trained the same as him. 

They finally reach the compact hospital-like room at the back of Stark’s lab; usually reserved for when Stark accidentally sets himself or someone else on fire. Bucky sees that the lab looks different now, Stark must have had the man inside the computers build up a new wall complete with a window that he guesses is one-way glass.  


Romanov and Barton are looking into the room, arms crossed and expressions identically neutral. Steve stops before they reach the window, taking his hand out of Bucky’s and putting it on his arm instead; squeezing his bicep. 

“You want me to look first?” Bucky asks softly, taking Steve’s hand off his arm and holding it in both of his own, “Yeah. I’ll look first. Ok?” Steve nods jerkily, eyes blinking rapidly. Bucky turns away from him, letting go of his hand, and walks over to stand next to Romanov, who obligingly moves out of his way, and lifts his head to look straight ahead into the window. 

She’s young, barely a teenager, and she’s got dark rings of sleeplessness under closed eyes, but even with that Bucky can see that she’s almost identical to Steve’s mother. A hazy memory stirs of one of the last times he saw Sarah Rogers; a soft, heart-shaped face, laugh lines around her small, rose-shaded mouth, thick, pin-straight blonde hair that she always wore in a bun, and bottomless, beautiful, blue eyes the exact size and shape of her son’s. 

He definitely sees what Stark means; she has to be related to Steve somehow. 

He looks for a moment more before he asks quietly, “What did you give her?” he doesn’t turn, but he feels Stark’s eyes staring at the floor instead of the girl he had obviously drugged. He hears the man grit his teeth before he says, “She wasn’t giving us much choice. She was unconscious when we found her, so we brought her here to be treated. She woke up in the middle of having an IV put in and ripped apart six of my EMT-bots, so I pulled on the suit and put the restraints on her. Worked like a charm; she didn’t fight at all after that.” He says with disgust in his voice. “Then why did you drug her?” Bucky asks again, this time turning away from her peaceful expression to look Stark in the eyes.  
Stark looks only a little ashamed as he says, “She still needs the medical attention, and I can’t do that with the restraints on her,” he sighs, “She damaged her prosthetics while decimating my robots.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, “Prosthetic _s_? She has more than one?” 

Stark nods. “Her full right arm, and her left leg from the knee down.” Bucky turns back to the girl, and this time he can see the metal hand sticking out of the end of the thick, metal bracelet underneath her sleeve. His head pounds harshly as he feels empathy for the girl; flexing his own metal fingers. He turns to Steve, who hasn’t said a word, and holds out a hand to him; an invitation to come closer. 

Steve stares at the hand for a moment. Then another. Then another. Then slowly, he steps closer and puts his hand in Bucky’s. Bucky pulls him closer and Steve comes willingly, taking a deep breath and then turning his head to look through the window. 

All of the air seems to go right out of Steve when he sees her face. A soft sound fights it’s way out of his throat as he clutches onto Bucky’s hand something fierce and stares at the mirror image of his mother on the bed. 

“How old is she?” he whispers, reaching up and placing his unoccupied hand against the glass. 

Stark inhales and screws up his face a little; shaking his head. “I’m not sure exactly, but my best guess is maybe 14? We can’t really ask her.” Steve looks down, taking his hand off the window and stepping back. He turns to Stark and looks for a second like he might hit him, but he doesn’t. 

Stark looks back at him evenly, then places a hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry Captain. It won’t happen again.” Steve nods, and turns back to the window.  
Bucky releases Steve’s fingers and turns to Stark. “How did you capture her again?” Stark looks back at him tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. 

“We were out investigating a lead on where she might have been planning on leaving the next body, and there she was. Laying on the ground, completely unconscious and unarmed in her battle armor.” Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Unarmed? Completely?” he questions. Stark nods. “That would go against every instinct in her. And they wouldn’t send her on an op without weapons. She could get by without them, but it doesn’t make sense for them to try and be _less_ efficient.” 

Memories of HYDRA bounce around in his skull, pictures of the chair, Zola, the feeling of being lit on fire from the inside. He uses the metal hand to squeeze both his temples; it helps. He doesn’t look up until he hears Steve say, “I wanna take those off her. Tony, let me in so I can take those off her.” 

Stark looks like he’s about to argue, but Steve cuts him off by saying, “You already got her knocked out. Let me take those metal cuffs off her so when she wakes up she doesn’t panic again and break more of your precious _toys_.” Stark’s neck twitches for a second, but then he quickly walk over and keys in a number combination to the keypad next to the door. Steve walks in; Bucky follows him, but stand near the door so as to give Steve a little room. 

His blonde walks over a little hesitantly, but once he reaches her bedside he immediately starts unlocking the metal gauntlets around her wrists and ankles. Once she’s freed, he gently brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes; his own are slightly wet. 

The minute his skin touches hers, her eyes snap open. Steve freezes as she looks at him, then reaches up her metal hand to take his. Bucky’s eyes go to her fingers, which close themselves over Steve’s wrist for a second to look at it, then pull it towards her to throw him into the window, which his body hits with a thud, and slides down to collapse on the floor. Bucky hears the other Avengers fumbling with the keypad outside the door and pulls his favorite knife out of the holster on his back. 

Bucky glances at Steve for a second—he’s breathing—then looks back at the girl, who has gotten off of the bed and is standing up straight and looking—no, _glaring_ —directly at him. Bucky evens out his stance and holds out the knife so she can see it. She doesn’t even spare it a glance as she yanks back her right sleeve, and extracts a knife from _inside_ her metal arm. She tosses it up, lets it flip, and catches it in her other hand. 

“You.” 

Her voice is deeper than he would have expected from the look of her; he can see now that she’s standing that she is about 5’10”, narrow-shouldered, and lightly built. 

“Me.” Bucky replies. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time, soldier.” 

“Waitin' for me? Why? I don’t reckon you and I have ever met.” 

She smiles Steve’s smile, but without any of the warmth. “Oh, we've met, soldier. You just don't remember.” 

“That’s possible.” Bucky muses, “I don’t remember lots of stuff.” 

She cracks her neck harshly. “You killed them. The family on the bridge. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know why I know you killed them. And I don't know how I know,” the empty smile is replaced again by scathing hatred. “but I _know_ you did. And I. Want. To. Know. _Why_.” 

A memory hits him hard, the crack of a little boy’s neck, a woman’s face when blood blossomed like a rose from her husband’s chest, a scream ripped from the chest of a blonde girl who threw herself onto the body of her mother. He looks back at her. “I can’t answer that question, but I’m sorry." he pauses as he gets a better grip on the gun he's been slowly pulling out of the holster on his back, "I’m sorry for this too.” 

Then he shoots her. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Steve's POV in this chap :)))
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

_1959_

_“Good Morning, Soldier. It’s about time you joined us.”_

_The girl opens her eyes to face the man in front of her. He is short. Round. Glasses. Both hands visible; threat minimal. The girls looks around the rest of the blank box of a room they’re in. the girls sees several other people, threat increased. The girl tries to lift her hands to defend, but they’re strapped down. She flexes her fingers, toes, and cracks her neck to the side; fully operational. The girl’s eyes resume focus on the short man._

_“As I was saying, soldier. You have been in containment for the past few weeks because of a minor malfunction. No need to worry though, it has been fully rectified,” the man makes a small noise that it takes the girl a moment to place; a laugh. “These ladies and gentlemen have gathered to see how excellent our ingrained training is.”_

_The girl feels the restraints retract and stands up and off of the chair. The girl walks forward to stand in front of the man. The man’s mouth lifts at both corners. The man gestures a hand toward a table a few feet away. The girl walks over to it. The man hands her two knives; the girl places them in their holsters. The man hands the girl three guns, one at a time they go in their holsters. The girl looks up at the man._

_“Are you ready for your mission, soldier?”_

_The girl steps back from the table and into position; shoulders squared, hands at sides, eyes level._

_“Show them what you were made for” someone says, from somewhere._

_“The Summer Soldier is fully operational, sir.”_

September 1, 2016 

She’s been sitting on the floor for two days. 

Steve has his arms crossed as he stares into the room in which his 13 year old niece has been curled into a ball for the past 45 hours. Every time he has been here, she hasn’t moved. She just sits, arms wrapped around her knees and eyes on the floor, her body turned in the direction of the door. 

After Bucky had shot her in the side, she had passed out, and Tony had been able to repair the damage she had done to her prosthetics, pull the bullet and wrap it, and set what looked like three broken ribs that had been healing incorrectly for weeks. She had to have been in excruciating pain every time she breathed. _For weeks._ She had woken barely an hour after Tony had finished, and had been sitting on the floor ever since. Steve turns away from the window, and instead leans against it, closing his eyes. Banner had been working in the research lab from the minute they got the DNA match between Steve and the girl. He had had a brother named Joseph Rogers who was born in 1926; a few months after his father died. His brother had grown up in an orphanage, married a girl named Rebecca Owens, survived the war by being in every place barely a little after Steve, and had two kids; Summer and Scott. According to the police report, they had been all shot to death in a robbery gone wrong in May of 1956. They even have graves in the Queens cemetery. 

He opens his eyes and sees his boy walking over with two mugs. Bucky hands him the cup and wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders; leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. Steve leans into his boy’s shoulder, inhaling a mix of their laundry detergent and clean, pine-scented shampoo. 

“Anything yet?” Buck asks with his face pressed into Steve’s hair. Steve shakes his head. “I’m about to go in and give her dinner. Again.” He says softly. Buck sighs, “I told you, Steve. She’s not gonna eat until you tell her to. She doesn’t understand that she needs the food.” 

Steve obstinately shakes his head; his niece has been given enough orders in her short life, he’s not gonna pile on any more. Buck sighs again. 

Steve pulls himself out of Buck’s arms and takes a sip from the mug; it’s coffee. _“Good.”_ he thinks, _“I’m gonna need it.”_ He finishes the coffee and hands the mug off to Buck, retrieving the tray carrying the sandwich, apples, and soup he had brought down from upstairs a few minutes ago. He knocks quietly on the door, pausing to ask, “Summer? Is it ok if I come in?” No reply. Steve opens the door, which he refuses to allow anyone to lock, and walks into the room. 

Summer doesn’t look up when he walks in, and he can’t see her eyes behind the sheet of hair that falls on either side of her face. Steve still can’t get over how much she looks like his mother; his brother probably never even knew. He squats down a few feet away from her and places the tray on the ground while picking up the one he left her at lunch. “You really need to eat, Summer. I know that’s not something you’re used to, but it’ll help, I promise.” He reaches out a hand to touch her, but thinks better of it at the last second and instead stands and turns to leave. 

“You look just like him.” 

Steve stops cold at the sound of her voice, and turns around. “Look just like who, Summer?” 

She hasn’t moved out of her fetal position, but she’s pushed her hair back so he can see her face. She doesn’t look at him as she says, “The man.” Her sapphire eyes, the ghost of his mother’s and his own, look wide and confused. “The man on the bridge.” 

Steve swallows the lump in his throat as he looks at her; Bucky explained what she had said after Steve had been knocked on his ass when they first brought her in. Summer hasn’t realized yet that the family she saw murdered was her own, and HYDRA obviously didn’t clue her in to the situation. “Did you know the man on the bridge?” Steve asks softly, placing the old tray on the ground and crouching down low. 

Summer shakes her head quickly, then stops, then starts again, then shuts her eyes and lets out a gasp; her hands reaching up to press on either side of her head. Steve’s heart clenches at the sight; all too familiar with the sight of someone trying to fight against electromagnetic shock programming. His hands twitch to comfort her, but he isn’t sure how she’ll take the physical contact, so he does nothing until she relaxes, letting her hands drop as she breathes shakily, her dark-ringed eyes exhaustedly looking straight ahead. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks when she’s calmed down and in the exact same position as before. She says nothing, so again Steve turns to go. 

“Is he real?” 

Steve turns around again to see that this time she’s looking right at him, her face a mix of desperation, fear, and confusion as her metal hand digs into the skin of her left arm so harshly that her skin begins to tear under her fingers. He can’t help himself after that, and snatches some gauze from the cupboard near the door and crawls over to her slowly, making her fingers relax and pressing the gauze to her open wounds. She hasn’t stopped looking at him. 

She asks again, her voice breaking, “Is he real?” Steve meets her eyes, which look so lost, wide, and confused. He nods, “Yeah. Yeah, he’s real, baby.” She nods to herself, relieved, relaxing again. She lets her legs stretch out and away from her body, and she leans back against the foot of the bed. Once he’s this close to her, he can see the impact the last few days have had on her; her cheeks look sunken, the bags under her eyes are worse, and she looks grimy. She looks so tired and it takes everything in Steve not to cry when he realizes that if they hadn’t caught her, she would’ve been wiped and put back in cyro by now. 

He hands her the sandwich, and she considers it for a minute before taking it and delicately taking a bite. She eats about ¾ of it before she places it on the ground next to her, chewing soundlessly. Steve checks the bleeding under the gauze, and when he sees that it’s slowed considerably he stands and gets some bandages, wrapping it tightly. She says nothing as he does this, looking the calmest and most compliant she’s been the whole time she’s been here; injuries are something she understands, they’re familiar to her. 

“You’re looking a little rough, Summer. You really should eat some more, and try to get some sleep.” Steve says again, this time sitting on the floor next to her and pulling the sandwich nearer to her. She stares at it for a second then looks back at him. “Why do you keep calling me that?” she asks softly. 

Steve sighs, “That’s your name. Remember when I told you that? Your name is Summer Rogers, and you’re my—." he stumbles, searching for the words, "You're mine. Don’t you remember that?” She shakes her head, then nods, then clutches the sides of her head with a cry, digging her fingers into both sides of her skull. Steve suddenly can’t take it anymore and he gently scoops her up into his lap, tucking her head under his chin and stroking her hair. 

She freezes there, then slowly she lowers her arms from her head and instead crosses them against her chest. It takes a few minutes, but gradually she relaxes and places her head on his chest. Steve doesn’t change positions and doesn’t stop running his fingers through her hair, and eventually he realizes that her breaths are coming slower and slower as she falls asleep against his chest. 

Steve waits a while before he shifts himself gradually beneath his sleeping niece; leaning back so he can see her face. All of the tightness around her mouth and in her shoulders is completely gone, her face is slack and her lips are slightly parted as small puffs of breath hit Steve in the chin. He continues to run his fingers through her hair, which despite an obvious lack of care it has been given is still thick and beautiful. Steve thinks about Buck’s sister Becky, and wonders if this is what he felt like when someone told him she was long dead. He feels tears well up in his eyes as he looks at Summer’s closed ones. 

_“You look just like him.”_

He shudders, sniffling quietly, and pulls his niece closer, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. Summer inhales sharply and squirms a little in Steve’s arms, so he immediately relaxes, giving her the freedom to push him away if she wants, but she doesn’t wake. Instead she curls up tighter, and presses her face firmly into Steve’s neck, murmuring something into his skin that he can’t quite make out. 

“Summer?” he asks quietly, “You awake, sweetheart?” 

His niece turns her face again so it’s not pressed up against him and sighs, softly continuing what she must have been saying before, “Zadaniye vypolneno. Zadaniye prekrashcheno v 0600 chasov 23 Marta 1976 goda dlya otchetnosti—” she gasps, “Net—net. Net. Net, Pozhaluysta. YA khorosho spravilsya. Podtverzhdena smert' v vozraste do desyati chasov. Ty obeshchal. _Pozhaluysta._ ” Her voice rises in desperation and volume as her breaths start to come hard and fast. She pushes away from Steve and violently thrashes on the ground, swatting at invisible hands touching her arms and gasping for breath; her eyes open wide with fear. 

They sit like that, Summer hyperventilating, Steve trying not to cry, and stare at each other for almost an hour until someone knocks on the door. Summer springs up from the floor without hesitation and takes a fighting stance in front of Steve, _between him and the door._

Steve can’t help the rush of warmth that floods his chest when he stands and places a hand on her shoulder. She turns, face confident as she tilts her head towards the back of the room, _“Stay behind me,”_ her eyes say to him. Steve shakes his head. He walks around her and calls to the door, “Who is it?” 

“It’s Tony. Is Femme Fatale awake? Nat and Barton have some questions for her.” Steve sighs and turns away from the door. He gently takes his niece’s hands and sits her on the bed, crouching down in front of her. 

“The people out there, they’re friends. They won’t hurt you, just like I won’t. You don’t have to trust them,” he swallows, “Trust is earned. I know that, and so do they. But they _won’t hurt you_ ,” he emphasizes, knowing the company outside can hear him. Summer considers his words for a moment, then looks him right in his eyes, “You’re leaving me?” her voice isn’t accusatory, but flat. Empty. Steve shakes his head a little frantically, holding her hands a little tighter. “No. No, no, no. I won’t leave unless you want me to, honey. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Summer nods, glances at the door, and then nods again. Steve releases her hands and walks over to the door, opening it slowly to reveal the three Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Summer says during her nightmare: "Mission complete. Target terminated at 0600 hours 23 March 1976. Reporting for—" "No—. No, no, no. Please. I did well. Confirmed death in under ten hours. You promised."
> 
> I apologize if the Russian isn't correct, I'm not a native speaker. If anyone is and has a correction for me, let me know and I'll fix it ASAP!!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought that Summer's POV was missing so here ya go
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://buckylouie.tumblr.com/

2016

It rolls its head on its shoulders setting its feet and standing tall. _Chin up, Soldier, I want to see your eyes open._

Steve walks carefully toward the door, turning the knob slowly to reveal the three people it can hear breathing on the other side. The first one to walk through the door is a woman with shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair and pale, creamy skin wrapped up in a pair of blue pants and a long-sleeve shirt. No visible firearms. Possible hidden knives. It fights the urge to pull the blonde behind it, when the threat walks calmly into the room and says something to Steve before gesturing to the man behind her. He’s a little taller than she, wearing all black clothing and his hair cropped short. Also no visible weapons. It can tell that he has small, skin-colored devices hooked into his ears. Possibly to feed intelligence. It squints its eyes at his face, deciding he is the Highest Threat to Steve’s safety.

Behind the two of them walks in a third man, who refuses to raise his eyes from the floor and has a heartbeat several beats/minute above optimal. He wears glasses and a suit, and his left hand is continually twitching. _Nervous, you idiot. You’re making him nervous._ It nods, internally, acknowledged.

Steve turns away from the three strangers and it hisses, yanking him by his hand toward the bed and pushing it behind. _Stupid, dumb baby. Never turn your back._ It crouches in front of Steve, shifting its weight to keep him slightly obscured from the view of the Possible Threats. None of the strangers do anything but slowly raise their hands into the air, and it turns back to look at Steve, eye brows raised in question.

“You can pat them down if you want, honey, but they don’t have any weapons, I promise. They don’t want to hurt me or you, they’re friends. People who only want to help.” It turns its gaze back to the Threats, eyes squinting carefully as is considers. It straightens, and walks forward feeling for weapons on all three of them, and reaching to remove the skin-colored devices hooked to the man wearing black clothes before Steve calls out softly for her to stop, saying “He needs those to hear, sweetheart, they aren’t a weapon I promise, he just needs them to hear.”

Finally, when the solider is satisfied, it turns back to Steve and sits beside him, placing its metal and flesh hands in its lap and staring at the three people standing/leaning against the wall in front of it. The redhead crouches down to meet its eyes. “Hi, Summer. Do you know my name? Or where I’m from?”

It flinches.

The redhead switches tactics. “Leto, vy znayete , kto ya?” The soldier’s head turns to the side, glancing up and staring her in the face until something clicks in the back of its brain.

“Vy Chernaya Vdova . Alias Natal'ya Romanova. Alias Natasha Romanov. 0672. Byvshiy agent HYDRA. Produkt Krasnaya komnata. Zakazy, chtoby ubit' na meste.” Natalia Romanova does not flinch, only nods, and continues asking questions in their shared tongue, introducing the men flanking her sides as Hawkeye (alias Clint Barton, 0673, trained at Cirque de Noir) and Iron Man (alias Tony Stark, 0674, known vigilante) as she goes along. It slowly answers her questions occasionally flinching until it sees Steve’s hand held out flat next to its leg. She puts her hand in his. He squeezes softly, rubbing his thumb softly over her knuckles. His hand is almost twice the size of hers and practically swallows it whole.

“Vy znayete svoyu missiyu?”

She shakes her head “Skomprometirovany pamyati. Zapros dlya nemedlennogo obnovleniya.”

“HYDRA.” She smacks the side of her head with her flesh palm, “Queens. A fourth floor walk-up two streets in. Green checkered curtains and tan window boxes filled with chrysanthemums.” Beside her Steve lets out a soft noise, possibly a pained one, and holds her hand a little tighter. Natalia is not to be put off, though, and immediately fires off another question.

“Vy pomnite, kak vy syuda popali?”

“Nyet.”

“Pomnite li vy za posledniye 24 chasa?”

“Nyet.”

No one says anything after her answers, but Summer can feel the tension in the room slowly receding, can see the three strangers’ shoulders relaxing and hear Steve’s breath come a little easier. Eventually Natalia tires of her questions about HYDRA and instead turns to Tony, who still hasn’t stopped fiddling with his fingers. Summer turns her eyes to him when he clears his throat and finally raises his eyes from the floor and pulling a jaunty smirk on his face to try and cover up his racing heart.

“Nice to meet you Buttercup, I’m Uncle Tony, the man that’ll teach you how to do all the _fun_ things whilst Daddy Rogers sighs and tries to keep you in before dark.” He smirks again, while beside Summer, Steve rolls his eyes. Tony takes a step closer to her, crouching down to meet her eye-level. “I hope you don’t mind too much,” he says in a much softer voice, “But I took a look at your prosthetics while I was wrapping your bullet wound.” Summer’s eyes narrow, “I didn’t tamper with them, scout’s honor, but from what I could see they’re pretty new, aren’t they?” Summer says nothing, just looks impassively into Tony Stark’s rich, coffee-colored eyes. “They look pretty painful to me, and like they’re impeding more function that they’re giving you. So I’m gonna sit down with my friend JARVIS, and he and I are gonna cook up something that’ll help, and maybe a little bit down the line when you know me better, I’ll fix you up.” He holds out a hand for her to shake, “Sound good?”

Summer turns to Steve, how is looking right back at her, and raises her eyebrows in a silent question. Steve raises the hand Summer isn’t holding to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes are a bright, almost shocking, blue. He turns to Tony, “That sounds great Tony, but we’ll talk about it later. Summer is tired, and we’ve got some other things to take care of first.” Tony nods, “Of course, of course. Absolutely no pressure. I understand better than most that sometimes mental has to come before physical.”

Summer lets go of Steve and scooches further back on the bed, staring at her hands, the metal and the flesh. She watches the cogs and clicks clack against each other as the fingers move delicately on the right. She presses on the flesh joint gently and relishes in the popping noise it makes; she does it for every finger on her hand.

Tony, Natalia, and Barton start to make quiet conversation from where they’re standing and Steve turns away from them to only look at her. “So, I was thinking, if you’re feeling up to it, maybe we can go upstairs and look at your room?” Summer says nothing, “It’s up on my floor of the building—well not _only_ mine, I share it with—with someone else. Someone I’d like you to meet, if you think you’re up for it.” Summer continues to look at her hands, but nods. She can practically _feel_ Steve’s smile. “Alright then, baby. We’ll get you all set up upstairs, show you our floor and—shit.” He seems to be remembering something, but keeps his mouth closed as he stands. Summer watches as he and the other three walk towards the door, opening it and slowly filing out, except for Steve, who waits for her and holds out his hand in her direction.

She takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian in this chap: 
> 
> Natasha "Summer, do you know who I am?" "Do you know your mission?" "Do you remember where you come from?"
> 
> Summer: "You are Black Widow. Alias Natalia Romanova. Alias Natasha Romanov. 0670. Former agent of HYDRA. Product of the Red Room. Orders to kill on sight." "Memory compromised. Request for immediate renewal." "Do you remember how you got here?" "Do you remember the past 24 hours?"


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did a bit of a longer flashback this time, tell me what you think!!
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

_April 20, 1972_

_“Absolutely not! That would be a waste of an extremely valuable resource, one that has been in full operation since you were in diapers!”_

_Alexander Pierce smiles at the short, balding man whose face is getting redder and redder as he yells. “So,” he thinks to himself, “This is the ‘famous and renowned’ Zola. Expected something more impressive.”_

_“Doctor,” he says soothingly, a charming smile plastered on his face, “I was merely suggesting that we put Asset Two on ice for a while, and bring out the original for some adjustments, it doesn’t have to be permanent.” He schools his features into something akin to regret, and places a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I know how hard you’ve worked to try and keep the Summer Soldier operational, but it’s just not working. Eventually have to stop blaming ourselves and chock it up to poor quality in the subject itself. The Asset just isn’t what you’d planned her to grow into.”_

_Zola sighs and adjusts his glasses. Alexander hides his smirk, knowing he’s won. “May I see her? Before we bring the vote to the board? I’ve only seen pictures.” He asks, feigning politeness. Zola nods, and beckons Alexander to follow him. The two of them walk out of Zola’s office together, passing through the rest of HYDRA’s hidden bunker, and enter an elevator at the end of the hall._

_“It’s currently being restrained because it just got back from a mission, and I don’t know if it’s awake currently, but it will be soon because—,” he looks at his watch quickly, “it’s time for it to wiped.” Alexander nods thoughtfully, familiar with the order of operations surrounding assets of this type. The elevator stops and they exit it, and begin walking down the hall at a brisk pace. They pass at least five doors before they come to a metal one at the end of the hall. Zola presses his thumb to the keypad on the doorknob, and after a second or two, the door clicks open._

_The room Alexander enters is split into two parts, the part he and half a dozen men are in all taking notes and chatting quietly, and the half that contains six armed guards and a blonde teenage girl strapped down to a table; the two separated by a metal wall with a wired windowpane._

_The Summer Soldier is awake, lying calmly on the table as she watches all of the guns pointed at her. Looking at her, Alexander can see why Zola doesn’t want to give her up; he can see the power in her slender arms, the calculation behind her stunning eyes. Zola beckons him over, leaning over to ask, “Would you like to see it up close? I have to ask it for a mission report.” Alexander nods. “Make sure you stay quiet, and move very deliberately. Hesitation sets her off,” the doctor adds as he walks over to the door separating them from possibly the most deadly assassin living currently._

_The door clicks open and Zola walks in, his shoes clicking smartly on the stone floor. She doesn’t look up when he walks in, keeping her eyes trained on the guns. Zola stops directly in front of her, placing himself in her line of sight. She slowly turns her face away from the guns, and turns her attention to Zola instead. It seems to take her a minute to place him, but once she does, her face becomes savage, her teeth bared and eyes wild as she shouts hoarsely in rapid Russian, her biceps bulging as she tries to break the metal wristlets that have her pinned._

_To his credit, Zola doesn’t even look phased, just raises a hand without looking up from his clipboard, signaling one of the armed guards to walk forward and hit the girl in the face with the butt of his gun. It takes several hits, but eventually she quiets, gasping for breath and spitting out the blood that’s gushing out of her nose and mouth. She may not be saying anything, but Alexander can clearly the see the hatred in her eyes as she gazes at the doctor._  
__

_“Now, my dear. Are you ready to behave?” Zola asks condescendingly, looking at her over the top of his glasses. She nods. “I want to hear you say it, my dear. I want your promise.” Alexander is impressed, he didn’t think Zola would demonstrate such nerve from the look of him and what he’s heard about the soldier, especially the way she’s been malfunctioning recently._

_The girl’s mouth opens, then shuts with an audible snap. She takes in a deep breath and lets out a grunt as the sound of bending metal fills the room. Zola looks around, searching for the source of the sound, eyes glancing all over and finally landing at where The Summer Soldier’s wrists and biceps are welded to metal table before him. They finally snap up with a metal groan, and she shakes them off of herself one by one. She takes a step off the platform and onto the ground to stand directly before Zola, the latter of whom is frozen in place and completely at a loss. Alexander backs away from the scene, the girl, the doctor, and the guns pointed at them both, and leans his body against the door; he wants to leave but he can’t seem to control his arms enough to push the door open._

_“What are you doing?! Shoot h—,” is all the good doctor can say before her hand cuts off his air supply. She lifts him off the ground so their eyes are level; his reddish-purple skin standing out starkly against the pale white skin of her left hand. Zola’s face loses more and more color as he weakly bats his chubby hands at the place where she’s holding his throat._

_She breathes heavily, her arm muscles twitching as she looks deeply into the eyes of the man that made her the monster she is. She watches unfeelingly as his hands finally stop moving and his eyes roll back into his head._

_“I promise.” She says softly._

_Then she crushes his windpipe._

September 1, 2016 

Bucky is starting to worry. 

Steve had been down in the lab with his niece all day, so the only time he saw him was when he made the trek down to bring his guy some coffee. Steve had chugged it and gone in to give Summer, he _has_ to remember to say her name so he gets used to it, something to eat that she will definitely _not_ eat. From what he understood it went well, because he hasn’t been out for an hour or so. Then, about twenty minutes ago, Stark, Barton, and Romanov had walked in there to talk to her. 

And Bucky definitely isn’t panicking about it at all. 

He’s absolutely not thinking about how when he was first breaking through his programming, groups of people terrified him more than anything else. He’s not thinking about how when he was scared his body was conditioned to choose fight over flight. He’s not thinking about his guy, the love of his life, _his Steve_ being in there without Bucky to protect him when he tries to comfort her. 

He had begged Steve to bring her up to their floor and let him stay down here, give her space and the freedom to walk from room to room on her own, even if she won't move unless she's asked. "She needs you, and she needs to feel safe," he had said, frustrated. "She deserves to have that, and I only make her afraid." he took a deep breath, "She deserves to have a bedroom without a viewing window." Steve had turned to Bucky with soft eyes and brushed a lock of hair out of his face. "She didn't know what she was doing, and she hasn't showed any aggression since then. She was just confused. Her brain is just hurting and she doesn't remember that she's allowed to feel pain, once she starts to remember a little more we'll help her, _together_." he reached a hand around Bucky's neck to pull him in for a soft, sweet kiss. Steve leans back to rest his forehead against Bucky's; Bucky likes that, likes Steve close and soft and safe and warm. "You're gonna stay in _our_ floor, on _our_ bed, in _my_ arms. Sorry to break it to you babydoll, but you're not allowed to sleep anywhere without me. You signed up for that on that one night in France that you crawled into my tent." Bucky smiles at that; he had been cold and curled up next to Steve after it had snowed up in the Alps. Steve had been better than any heater he had ever known, and it had been so long since the two of them were alone. It's a good memory. 

At the time, Bucky had nodded and smiled and pulled Steve in for another, longer, kiss, but now he was feeling strained. He knew she would have a break, he knew that she would hurt whomever was closest too her, and he knows that person will be Steve. 

Which means Bucky has to do everything he can to be there to push him out of the way. 

The handle on the door next to him turns, and he stands fluidly, backing away so as not to startle whomever walks through first; it's Barton. He nods respectfully to the sniper, who has his arm stretched behind him to hold onto Romanov, the latter of whom Bucky still can't look in the eye. After them walks out Stark, and then Steve who is looking back into the room, eyebrows raises and smile soft and encouraging. "C'mon. I promised, remember? No one is gonna hurt you. You're all clear, sweetheart." The girl walks out slowly, tensely, eyes flicking around the room as she wrings her hands. Steve's smile broadens and he turns to look over at Bucky, his eyes bright as he holds out a hand toward him. 

Bucky takes the hand. 

The girl he sees before him is completely different than the girl who tried to kill him two days ago. She can't keep still; her hands are cracking her knuckles over and over and over, and Bucky can see a bandage has been sloppily pressed to where are metal arm meets her left shoulder. She looks tired, scared, and weak; the lack of nutrition pumps her body is used to is obviously taking it's toll if her sunken cheeks, filthy hair, and sharp collarbones are anything to go by. 

Summer doesn't see him, her body still tight with suspicion and fear. Steve pulls Bucky towards him, wrapping an arm around him and placing his hand on Bucky's hip. "Summer?" Steve says, waiting until her eyes are focused on him. One of her eyebrows quirks to the side, _"What?"_ her face says. "I want to introduce you to someone, is that ok?" Summer says nothing, which must mean yes, because Steve pulls Bucky closer and prompts Summer to shift her eyes from Steve to Bucky; they widen slightly but he sees no recognition, only confusion. Steve continues, "This is Bucky. He's my—," he pauses, twisting his mouth to the side, "He's mine. Just like you, yeah?" She nods. "Yeah." Steve smiles even broader, if possible, "He lives with me up on our floor, and that's where you can live too, if you want." Steve bites his lip, "Would you like that?" 

Summer doesn't say anything, and just stares at the floor. Bucky pulls away from Steve to stand in front of her, leaning down to look her in the eye. "U vas yest' razresheniye govorit', Summer. I vy mozhete skazat', yesli vy ne khotite, chtoby sdelat' chto-to, vse v poryadke?" Summer's eyebrows shoot up, but she relaxes. 

"YA khochu poyekhat' s nim na pol. On skazal, chto u menya budet krovat'? Moy sobstvennyy?" she asks softly, her eyes focused on the ground. Bucky nods and gestures to Steve to lead the way to the steps. Steve throws Bucky a grateful look and takes his hand, walking toward the steps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian in this chapter: Bucky says "You have permission to speak, Summer. And you can say if you don't want to do something, okay? 
> 
> Summer replies: "I want to come with him to the floor. He said I will have a bed? My own?"


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tried Summer's POV! hope you like it :)
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

September 15, 2016

Summer shoots out of bed and rolls forward, landing on her feet crouched in a sparring position, eyes wide open and darting around the room. Slowly she straightens up, breathing a little quieter, then she pushes open her bedroom door and stumbles into the bathroom, vomiting loudly into the toilet behind the door. When she’s finished, she sits on the cold tiled floor, palms pressed harshly to her temples as they throb under her hands. She clamps her eyes shut and curls her legs against her chest, pressing her forehead against her knees and gasping for breath. 

There’s a quiet knock on the door, Summer doesn’t move. The footsteps on the tile are silent, but suddenly she feels something warm and a foot taller than her sit opposite her feet. She leans her head back and opens one eye to find Bucky sitting on the floor in a position similar to her own. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and plaid flannels, with white socks on his feet. 

“Nightmare?” he says in Russian. Summer nods. Bucky shuffles farther into the wall, and holds his metal arm out, _an invitation_. Summer scoots forward, tucks herself under the arm, and curls up against his side. He leans his head against hers and slowly drags his metal fingers up and down her own metal arm. She flinches. “Does it hurt?” he asks. Summer considers the question. Steve told her what ‘hurt’ means; he said its like when she would get shot during an op, or like when she failed an op and she got the chair. She thinks about the fire in her skull, the tears in her eyes as she choked and screamed and everyone she called for was dead. The ache in her shoulder doesn’t even mildly compare. 

She shakes her head.

Bucky understands though, so he puts his hand on her back instead and brushes his knuckles up and down her spine. She counts the times he does it; up and down, up and down. She likes it. Steve told her what that means to, what it means to like something. He compared it to when she would be kept out overnight to watch a target, and she would see the sun rise. The colors painted across the sky and the warm feeling that rushed through her chest when she watched them. She feels the same way when Steve or Bucky touch her. 

She’s still getting used to that, touching meaning something good. It took a few days of flinching and starting before Steve could place a hand on her shoulder or brush hair out of her face. Bucky understood, he always does, and instead would hold out a hand or open his arms and wait for her to come to him. 

Bucky pulls her a little closer and presses his mouth to the crown of her head. She closes her eyes and breathes in his scent, pine trees and clean, wet earth. “You want to try to sleep again? Or do you want to watch a movie?” he murmurs into her hair. Summer thinks about her sweaty bedsheets and the shadows on her walls that never seem to go away. The open space and windows of the television room may be a higher threat, but she doesn’t want to feel boxed in. “Movie.” She replies softly. Bucky lets go of her and the two of them stand up fluidly. 

“Should I wake up Steve?” Summer nods. Bucky leaves and heads toward the bedroom he and Steve sleep in while she heads toward the couch in the middle of the television room. She does a quick glance around and sits toward the end of the couch farthest from the window. She hears sleepy murmuring from Steve and Bucky’s bedroom and then shuffled footsteps that come up behind her. One set of feet head for the kitchen, and the other set comes up behind her and drops a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. Steve walks around the couch and squats at her feet. His pants match Bucky’s, but he’s wearing a red sweatshirt with holes around the collar rather than a t-shirt. His eyes are gentle as he looks at her face. 

“Nightmare again, huh?” he asks, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. She nods, then because she knows he likes when she speaks English she says, “I’m sorry I woke you up.” Her head throbs as she says the words; making the conversion from Russian in her head always gives her a headache. Steve’s eyes turn even warmer and he stand up to plop on the couch next to her and pull her close. “You don’t have to be sorry, honey. I’m glad you asked Bucky to come get me,” he looks at her seriously, “You can get me any time you need me, sweetheart. Ok? Always.” Summer nods. 

Summer’s been living with the two men for several days now, and they have yet to prove themselves a threat of any kind. Steve, the blonde one, reminds Summer of a dog; overeager, soft, clumsy but well-meaning, and over all gentle. It seemed that his two purposes in life were to constantly touch her hair, and look at the brunet one like he created the entire universe. 

Bucky is the brunet, and Summer likes that he has a metal arm, like her. Although he has had his longer than she has, Summer can tell from the way he doesn’t think before he moves it and how it doesn’t make him flinch like hers do. Bucky is quiet, he somehow knows she prefers Russian and he never touches without allowing her a way out in the process. She likes Bucky, he feels familiar somehow, even if she can’t remember seeing him before Steve introduced them. Steve feels familiar too, but in a different way. 

When she looks at Bucky, she feels calm, focused, in-control. Steve’s face prompts emotion; a flash of fury and a stab of sadness, endless loneliness and a voice, a girl, screaming about something, she just can’t hear _what_. 

She lets out a little gasp and presses her hands to either side of her head, squeezing it tightly. She hears Steve make a panicked noise and feels one of his big hands plop down on her left knee. He rubs it in little circles, and he’s saying something that she can’t hear over the roar of pain between her ears. Then, as suddenly as it came, it’s gone, and whatever she was thinking about goes with it. 

Summer drops her hands and breathes in deep, relaxing her shoulders. She opens her eyes and Steve is moved to crouch before her again, face soft and eyes sympathetic. He reaches up a hand to brush her hair back, checking her head for wounds, but he must not find any because he leans up to press his mouth to her forehead instead. 

Bucky walks back into the room holding a cup and a plate. He puts the plate on the short table next to the couch and hands her the cup. Summer glances inside of it; clear liquid, probably water. She takes a sip; definitely water. She chugs ¾ of the cup and then leaves the last bit and to swish around in her mouth then spit back out. She puts the cup on the short table and looks at the plate; Bucky’s gotten her some of the white squares that she likes. She grabs three and eats them one by one in small bites as she curls herself into Steve’s side. 

Bucky, who’s sitting on Steve’s other side with his metal arm wrapped around Steve’s back, lifts the remote and turns on the television, clicking until he finds a bright looking show with multicolored characters on the screen. Summer shifts to stretch her legs and places them in Steve’s lap. Summer knows he’s surprised from the way his shoulder moves, but doesn’t say anything and instead rubs his hands over each one of her feet; the metal and human. She tries to focus on the screen, but she can’t seem to move her eyes from Steve’s hands when he touches her feet, then moves on to her legs, brushing the place where her skin meets the metal. Her leg flinches when a hot ache radiates from her ankle up to her knee. Steve doesn’t notice and just keeps gently touching, counting her toes and softly brushing the arches of her feet, but Bucky meets her eyes from behind Steve’s head and raises an eyebrow. Summer shrugs, and turns her head so that it’s pressed into Steve’s shoulder. He makes a happy noise and presses his mouth to her head again softly, pulling her into his lap completely. 

Summer breathes in his scent, clean fabric, sleep-sweat, and _warm_ , and shuts her eyes, the television droning on in the background.

September 16, 2016

Steve wakes to find himself sandwiched between two very warm super-soldiers. Summer is curled on top of him exactly where he moved her last night after she fell asleep against his side, and Bucky is propped up against the side of the couch behind Steve with his arms placed right underneath Steve’s hands on Summer’s back. 

Steve rolls his shoulders and feels Bucky’s chest stiffen behind him as he wakes up. His boy nuzzles his nose into the crook of his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the joint of his neck. Steve smiles and leans back into Buck harder, turning his head to meet his lips in a soft kiss. Buck’s smile is lazy and warm when he opens his eyes to look at Steve. “Good morning.” He murmurs softly, leaning in for another kiss. Steve shakes his head and kisses Buck’s nose instead, turning back around to look at Summer. 

She’s awake, breathing quietly with her eyes open as she picks fabric pills off of Steve’s sweatshirt. Steve smooths a hand over Summer’s hair, prompting her to look up at him and Buck. She doesn’t smile, but Steve can tell she’s relaxed and content by the way she stretches like a cat and pushes off of him to stand. She rolls her head around on her shoulders and pulls her arms behind her to stretch and arch her back. She sighs, and walks over to the window to look at the city. 

Steve stretches pulls himself up from the couch and offers a hand to Buck, who stands with a groan and pecks him on the hand just to see Steve blush. Steve saunters into the kitchen and opens the fridge, leaning down to check if they need to go shopping soon, and then he starts to pull together breakfast like usual; eggs and toast. 

Steve grabs the ingredients but trades a few out, adding spinach and peppers to the mix rather than ham because meat makes Summer sick. He hears someone come into the kitchen and quietly sit at the island table behind him. He turns to pull a spatula out of a drawer in the island and tries not to get too excited when he sees that its Summer sitting at the table, curled up in a chair with her plate of crackers from the night before. 

“Good Morning.” He says over his shoulder as he turns back to poke at the eggs with the utensil. “Dobroye utro,” she murmurs back softly, munching on one of her crackers. Steve smiles to himself as he continues to putter around the kitchen.

Steve is absolutely amazed by his niece. When they first brought her upstairs to their floor, she had scoped out every inch of the entire floor, looking in every nook and cranny for bugs and weapons and possible bombs. After, she had stayed in her room for three days to recover. As awful as it sounded, Steve was a little grateful that she had barricaded herself in her room for a bit; it gave him time to prepare. He went online and ordered a bunch of soft shirts and pants in what looked like her size, along with shampoo and soap that probably smelled nicer than the kind he and Buck had in their shared bathroom. He also grabbed other things that he thinks she’ll need, shoes, socks, and the plainest pairs of teenager-ish girl’s underwear he could, blushingly, find. He decides that he’s gotten enough to last them a bit, promising himself he’ll ask Nat or Pepper to ask her what other _delicates_ she might need. 

On the fifth night they had her, Bucky had found her sitting on the couch in their living room, staring out the window at nothing while she pulled at place where her metal arm met her shoulder and shook from head to foot. Buck spoke to her softly in Russian, reassuring things that Steve could only partially understand while he slowly coaxed her to let go of her arm and ripped off a piece of his t-shirt to stop the bleeding with. 

Her eyes had been wild, the exact size and shape of Steve’s own reflected back at him, but manic; frightened. She spoke in broken English, then French, then Mandarin, then Russian all flowing into each other in a mess of confusion until she was gasping for breath in between phrases while raking her nails across her armored skin, breaking the nails off on her right hand and tearing the fabric with her left. It had taken a long time to get her calmed down enough to wrap her shoulder again and keep her from trying to pull her own skin off, but after they had Buck had asked if she wanted to take a shower, telling her in a soft and soothing voice that it always helped him feel better on hard days. She had just stared at him, until he offered her a hand and led her to the bathroom attached to her bedroom. Steve went and grabbed all her new bath stuff and her new clothes, placing the latter on the immaculately made bed, and brought the rest to put on the bathroom vanity. 

Buck was standing in front of the shower, quietly explaining the way the knobs work as she stared at the wall. Steve gently put a hand on Summer’s elbow, and tried not to feel hurt when she flinched violently and turned to look at him. 

“Here,” he said, handing her the shampoo, soap, and towel, “I grabbed some stuff you’ll need I—,” he doesn’t get another word in before she immediately starts stripping, starting with unbuckling her boots then efficiently pulling open the black clips on her armor that stretch from under her metal arm to her thigh, then she pulls the suit over her head and steps out of it. She stands there, completely in the buff excusing the bandages Steve put on her shoulder and the tight cream-colored bandages wrapped like a vice around her chest, and doesn’t seem even register that the two of them are in the room with her. Steve can’t even muster the shame to blush because he barely hold back the vomit at the back of his throat from looking at her patchwork skin, _his poor, poor little girl_. 

Buck doesn’t talk much about HYDRA with Steve unless he has a really bad day or he’s telling a joke, but Steve has seen enough of the scars on his boy’s skin to recognize the similar marks on Summer’s. Old bullet wounds and burns, a few white lines here and there from stabbings, rings around her human wrist and ankle, _from breaking restraints_. Steve takes a deep breath and focuses on the wall above her head, then turns back to look his niece in the eye. 

“Don’t you wanna take that off?” he gestures to the strip of fabric around her chest, “It looks tight, sweetheart. Does it hurt?” Summer doesn’t even have to think about it before she shakes her head. She reaches behind herself and untucks it from the knot it’s in at the top of her spine and slowly unwinds it from around her body. It drops to the ground and all of the air seems to go out of his lungs when he sees what the fabric was covering; square-shaped scars around where her breasts should be, on either side of both of her nipples. Steve closes his eyes for a second and counts to ten, trying to quell the hatred thundering in his veins for every single person ever involved in HYDRA. For every person that beat and electrocuted the man he loves and froze and vivisected his only brother’s baby girl. _His_ girl now. 

Steve swallows his anger for later, and instead looks back at his niece to reach around her and turn on the shower head, waiting until it’s warm and coaxing her under the spray, telling her that he and Bucky will be in the living room if she needs them and that he laid out some clothes for her on her bed. Steve doesn’t make it a step out her bedroom door before he drops on his knees, sobbing. Buck wraps around him from behind and pulls him over to the couch, whispering soft things and brushing through his hair, which has gotten far too long and his Ma would call him a hippie, and _God_ what he’d do to talk to Sarah Rogers and beg her to tell him why she gave up his baby brother and ask her _what_ can he _possibly_ do to care for his little niece, who’s had a life so horrible she doesn’t even know the difference between being manipulated and being loved and _Dear merciful Lord_ , he can’t _breathe_. And that’s all the warning he gets before he feels like his lungs are collapsing, Buck still wrapped around him and calling him _sugar, babydoll, honey_ like its 1939 and Steve’s having an asthma attack. 

Later, when Steve caught his breath Buck had convinced Summer, who had stood in the shower for close to an hour and a half after the water went cold, to put on some of her new clothes and come out to the living room to eat some soup; that’s how they discovered her inability to eat meat when she projectile vomited the half-bowl of chicken soup that they got her to swallow. That’s also how they discovered her affinity for crackers. After that, it gets easier. Summer will get up and allow Steve to feed her breakfast, then take shower that usually lasts several hours and sometimes she’ll even use soap, then she sits in the living room and watches Steve draw and Buck read until it’s time for dinner, then she’ll crawl into bed and sort of sleep until she has a nightmare, which Buck will usually hear and get up to calm her down and then the three of them will fall asleep on the couch until it’s morning and the cycle restarts. 

And that’s how Steve finds himself two weeks into having Summer in his life, grateful. Grateful and hopeful and _full_ for the first time in a long time. He knows they have so much more to figure out, he already called Sam and asked him to come over and talk to Summer, see if he can get her set up with a therapist who could help, but she’s already getting so much better, and he even thinks he saw her smile yesterday for the first time he’s ever seen.

He finishes cooking and plates the eggs, giving himself, Buck, and Summer all equal portions. He slides the plate across the island counter top and hands his niece a fork raising his eyebrows until she take sit and slowly begins to eat. Buck walks into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, and grabs one of the other two plates, eating it standing up and leaning on the counter. He softly asks Summer something in Russian, and she nods, not looking up from her plate, and replies just as softly. They go through the rest of the meal like that, Buck asking Summer questions and her soft replies, then Steve asking her questions in English and Summer nodding delicately while keeping all her attention on the eggs. When they’re all finished and the dishes are in the sink, Buck heads into the living room and plops on the couch, flipping through the channels until he settles on something he likes, Steve sits next to him and draws, Summer showers, changes, and takes a short nap squished between them.

Sam comes over the next day and Summer takes an immediate protective stance between him and her uncles/parents, pulling a kitchen knife out of the hidden compartment in her metal arm that Steve didn’t even _know_ she had.

“Gosudarstvennyye vashi nomera i missii,” she shouts, knife pointed at Sam’s sternum, “Ruki vverkh.” Sam puts his hands in the air and allows her to slowly creep forward, patting down his sides and growling until she seems satisfied and finally listens to Buck calling from behind her that “Sam yavlyayetsya drugom. Sam ne predstavlyayet ugrozy. Sam ne imeyet missii.”

She slinks away from the three men, storing her knife back in the hollow of her arm and curling into a ball on the couch. Buck, Steve, and Sam follow, but Sam makes sure to sit on the armchair opposite the couch when Summer possessively crawls onto Steve’s lap and places her legs in Bucky’s, wrapping an arm around one of each of theirs. And so it goes like that; Sam asks questions and sometimes he gets murderous stares and sometimes he gets grunts or growls but sometimes he gets a nod or even a “Da.” Summer relaxes the longer that Sam is there, quietly asking questions not only of her, but of Buck and Steve too, things that aren’t about his niece and are about television or cooking or books or art. And eventually Summer slumps into Steve’s side and tucks her face into his neck for her daily nap. Sam looks pleased at that, and he leaves not too much later after giving them a number of a good friend of his who specializes in refugee children.

And that days pass like that for a while. The cycle of Summer added flawlessly into the cycle of SteveandBuck, making a perfectly imbalanced mess that Steve can only describe as the feeling of family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian in this chapter:  
> Summer says "Good morning.", "State your numbers and mission. Hands up."  
> Bucky says "Sam is a friend. Sam is no threat. Sam has no mission."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chap is so late :// i've been BURIED under school work lately
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> the more kudos you leave the more motivated i am to put up the next chap :))))
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

October 2, 2016

It takes Steve a few weeks to realize that Summer loses time.

The cycle of waking-eating-showering-napping-eating-nightmare-sleeping has been continual over the past few weeks, the only changes being that sometimes Summer will hide in her room, go down to the basement and run until she almost passes out, or she’ll meet with Dr. Tower, the psychiatrist that Sam recommended, but mostly things have stayed the same. Over the weeks her speech has regresses to the point where she only speaks in Russian when it’s spoken at her and she develops a severe facial tic.

Steve asks her why she no longer speaks English one day, with a sketchpad in his lap and with her leaned against him while she watches Dance Moms; a reality TV show that Nat introduced to her recently. She shrugs at the question and presses her face into his armpit, _“I don’t know.”_

“Well why do you think? Do you just not want to? That’s ok, you know. If you don’t want to,” he says softly, petting her long blonde hair in the French braid Bucky had made that morning. The braiding was a recent thing, Bucky remembered how to do it from when he used to take care of his sister. Summer had given him one of her very rare smiles the first time he had Dutch-braided it back, and he had researched on the internet for new tricks to try after every one of her showers since.

Summer pulls her face out of Steve’s underarm, and makes her ‘thinking-face’ at him. She puts a hand on her throat, looking at him with her eyebrows raised, and mimes speaking, and then says “Bolit. Angliyskiy bolit,” and places both hands on either side of her head, pressing harshly. Steve doesn’t know much Russian, but he understands enough. He nods, sympathetic, “Ok. I’m sorry, honey, I was just wondering. You don’t have to speak at all, if you don’t want to.” Summer looks confused, so Steve continues, “Clint knows a language where you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Would you like us to learn that? So you can tell me things without having to speak?” Summer’s face tics harshly several times as she nods. Her mouth turns small and content as she folds herself back into Steve’s side, eyes focusing back on the television.

Soon after that conversation, her protective bubble extends to Sam, Nat, and Clint, who come over enough that she barely even pats them down anymore before she rubs her face all over them and sits in their laps. She smiles sometimes, signing contentedly with Clint, sleeping on Sam, and comparing knives with Natasha. She’s gained weight; her muscles more proportionate to her height, her face fuller, and the scars surrounding her metal limbs fading to match the rest of her skin.

Steve and Buck are practically glowing with how much they love their girl, which is probably why it takes Steve some time to realize how much she forgets. She’ll ask the same question every single day for a week until she remembers the answer, or she’ll look at her left hand with horror like she doesn’t remember how it got there. The most telling episode is the fact that she doesn’t seem to recall the first two days she spent in Stark Tower or when she tried to kill Bucky.

Steve asks her about the man on the bridge, something that he really knows is the memory of the deaths of her family, and she just looks at him blankly, and signs “Don’t know. Don’t remember.” Steve nods, but his insides churn. He knows that The Soldier was the one who killed her parents and brother and brought her to HYDRA. Bucky has been having nightmares about it for weeks, he remembers every detail and is feeling even guiltier about it than usual because they haven’t told her the truth.

He knows they’ll have to tell her someday, but he can’t help but want her to look at Buck the same way she always does. Like he’s someone who can keep her safe, someone she trusts.

Steve watches them on the couch from the kitchen, still watching Dance Moms, (“There are six seasons,” Nat smirked at Steve over Summer’s head, “And the sixth is _ongoing_.”) Summer’s full attention is on the screen, but her metal hand is moving constantly against Buck’s, counting his fingers and stroking the grooves, her fingers making little happy twitches when she recognizes the same patterns of metal from her own arm. That’s the best way they discovered how to calm her down on a bad day, Buck’s arm.

The last one was a week and a half ago, she had woken up barely an hour after Steve had said goodnight to her, screaming and shaking and trying to pry off her metal limbs, human fingers digging into her shoulder and human foot chopping at her ankle. Steve had stood in the doorway to her bedroom, hands open and out in front of him, calling her name and making soft noises, slowly approaching the bed as she started to calm, her limbs stopping their work of pulling at her prosthetics and her breath coming easier. Steve is almost to the bed when she starts banging her head against the wall.

“Defektnyye, neispravny.” _Bang_ , “Postoyannoye zamorazhivaniye,” _bang_ , “Nepolnotsenny, slomano.” _Bang_ , “Mama, Mama.” _Bang_ , “Papa?” _bang_ “Skott?” _bang_ , “Mama, neispravny. Postoyannaya deaktivatsiya.” _Bang_ , “ _Mama_.” She gasps as Steve pulls her away from the wall and into his chest, blood dripping slowly from her temple as Steve tucks her head under his chin and starts rocking, murmuring, “Ty Leto. Ty Leto Rodzhers. Eto 2016. Vy zhivy. Ty v bezopasnosti. HYDRA ne zdes'.” Summer’s breath becomes ragged, but she calms, her hands shaking.

She shoves against Steve’s chest and he lets go of her immediately, allowing her to lean forward and vomit all over the floor, her shoulders shaking and her face ticcing as she lets out a sob from the back of her throat. Steve runs his hands over her shoulder’s shushing quietly until she violently flinches away from him, jumping off the bed and sprinting out of the room.

The Summer Soldier looks left and right, door or window? door or window? It glances back to see the blond one standing in the room it just came out of, hands out. His mouth is moving, but it can’t hear the sound, can’t place the words. It’s eyes narrow, _Steve, safety, Steve, safety, Steve, love_ , so it won’t hurt the blond then. Instead it rolls to the window, kicking it’s right foot through and shattering the whole pane. It pulls itself through the opening and scales the building easily, climbing up to the roof within a matter of minutes.

It sits on the roof, crouched, as it looks over the sky.

It doesn't know how long it's been up here, but an unfamiliar twisting is clenching in it's gut, a pull behind it's eyelids.  _Hungry and tired, idiot. You're hungry and tired._ It flinches at the voice in it's head, and tics it's face several times, it's tongue clicking against it's teeth. It shifts it's weight, not turning when it hears a door open behind it. It hears boots crunch on the ground,  _the brunet_. 

A hand hovers over it's shoulder, not touching, just hanging there. 

Summer sighs,  _an invitation_. 

She collapses in a heap on the ground, tears coming fast when she turns her head to look at Bucky, whose face is soft and warm and gentle. He scoops her up and makes soothing noises, taking her hands in his metal one and rubbing his fingers over her knuckles. She makes a soft sound, an wraps her hands around his metal one. 

"Kak moy. Tak zhe, kak moya." she says quietly. Bucky nods, and presses his mouth to her hair.

Steve saw them later, after Buck had coaxed her back into the house. Summer had cried again, signing shaky apologies and curling up against Steve as he hugged her. He kissed her forehead and wiped her tears, pulling her over to the couch for Dance Moms and a sandwich.

Steve keeps watching Buck and Summer from the kitchen until his niece looks over at him and beckons with her eyes,  _"Dance Moms. Come. Hugs."_  

Steve smiles as he walks over. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian in this chap: Summer says "Defective, defective. Permanent freeze, defective, broken. Mama, Mama. Daddy? Scott? Mama, defective. Permanent deactivation." and, "Like mine. Just like mine."
> 
> Steve says "You're Summer. You're Summer Rogers. It's 2016. You're alive. You're safe. HYDRA isn't here."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya :) this is my first ever fic and I would really appreciate any and all comments you have for me!!
> 
> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/

December 5, 2016

“Baki, ya khochu tantsevat'.” _Bucky, I want to dance._

Steve doesn’t look up from his sketchpad as Summer says something to Bucky from where they’re curled up on the couch watching television (Summer recently discovered Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team and has been fascinated ever since; she’s asked Nat to add high kicks into her combat training.)

Things have been blessedly uneventful in the past several months. Summer has fully adjusted to living in the Tower, she wanders around and follows the other Avengers, yammering at them in Russian or (as of late) French or signing earnestly. Steve and Bucky are delighted that Summer’s circle of people she puts herself in front of when strangers come has grown to include Bruce and Tony, both of which have made adjustments to her prosthetic arm and foot so that they cause her less pain. She likes to run around the apartment in circles whenever she gets stressed or frightened, Bucky thinks it’s probably her most productive coping mechanism; Sam thinks it’s hilarious.

“Khorosho, vy mozhete tantsevat' pryamo seychas.” _Okay, you can dance right now._  
“YA khochu tantsevat's drugimi. Drugiye iz nikh, kak ya.” _I want to dance with others. Other ones like me._  
“Drugiye devushki?” _Other girls?_  
“Da.”

Bucky seems to consider this for a minute, then turns his head to look at Steve with panic in his eyes. Steve looks back at him with equal amount of panic in his eyes.

So they call Sam.

December 8, 2016

“You’re sure that your sister won’t mind us being there? Like in the room? Just ‘cause your sister don’t speak her languages and I don’t want her gettin’ scared.” Bucky starts cracking his knuckles repeatedly. Sam shakes his head, “Lots of parents sit in the room during privates. And this is just a little assessment, remember, Erin just wants to see where her technique is at before she adds her in with the rest of the girls her age. Usually girls start pointe around 13, so she won’t be too behind if she wants to start.” Bucky nods, and looks at Summer across the room with Steve looking at dance clothes.

Sam’s sister Erin is a dance teacher at a local studio, the minute that Steve called he set up a time for them to go over to the studio (so both Bucky _and_ Summer could comb through every inch of the entire building) so Erin could watch Summer dance. Apparently that necessitates driving downtown to the Dance, Dance, Dance Supply store to acquire something for Summer to wear. As Summer looks through rack after rack of two-piecey strappy things that look more like ladies’ _underthings_ than anything Steve would ever let his niece wear in public, Bucky scopes out the store and makes sure no one gets too close to his girl and his guy. Summer finally picks several things; two plain, black, _full-piece_ leotards, pink tights and matching shoes, two little skirts that Summer can tie around her waist, and two sets of those strappy midriff-showing tops and their matching high-waisted shorts.

She looks incredibly smug the whole ride home.

December 10, 2016

“Okay, Summer now turn forward into a plie, grande plie, excellent, excellent! Beautiful! Now demi, and stretch, demi and stretch and follow all the way through! Wonderful. Okay Summer, I think you’re all done for the day. Thank you so very much!” Erin says to Summer, who pulls herself out of the position she’s in and turns to Bucky. “All done?” she signs, Bucky nods from the corner he and Steve are sitting in. Summer leans forward and wraps her human arm around Erin, (hugging strangers is her new thing, along with doing handstands no matter where she is if she gets bored; her current favorite place is the elevator in the Tower) tentatively leaning her head on Erin’s shoulder. “Thank you, Sam’s sister Erin.” She signs once she’s leaned back. She then grabs her little skirt and ties it on, skipping over to Bucky, plopping in his lap, and tucking her head under his chin with a comfortable sigh. Bucky presses a kiss to her face and Steve rubs a hand down her back, nice and gentle.

Erin walks over to the three of them and gushes over how amazing it is that Summer is so talented, and saying that if she would like to, she can join the 12-15 pre-pointe class immediately. “What days of the week is it? Would we be able to wait at the studio? Is it an issue that Summer doesn’t speak English aloud?” Erin assures them that they are welcome to be in the classroom if they like while she teaches, that there is another girl in the class who is deaf and only uses sign language to communicate so all of the teachers and a good number of students are all proficient, and that the classes are Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays from 5-7:30.

“You said something about signing paperwork?” Steve asks.

Bucky can’t see her face, but he knows that Summer’s smiling into his neck.

 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chap was in the sequel? but i just decided to delete the sequel and put this chap with the original fic. enjoy :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a one direction/marvel/star wars/girls blog http://zouisbus1tatt.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

_1973_

**_“Would you rather freeze to death or burn alive?”_ **

_It considers._

_It doesn’t remember where it heard the question, or the small male voice that voiced the query, but here, shivering and naked on the floor of the room it has died in a thousand times, forcing it’s eyes not to see the table in the corner of the room that it knows is waiting, it finds that the question fits under a certain category of humor._

**_Irony, dummy. The question is ironic._ **

_It muses over this fact for several more moments, its teeth chattering the only sound in the room._

**_It’s ironic because Scott asked us that question hypothetically on a long train ride to pass time, and here we are almost twenty years later, him dead, and us freezing to death on this filthy stone floor._ **

_It nods to itself. Understood._

_It curls itself a little tighter, the strength in its body fading after sitting like this for so long. The wounds on its chest and the back of its legs burn from the skin-to-skin contact. It rocks there, on the dirty floor in the cold, its arms shaking and its eyelids fluttering towards sleep._

**_Stay awake, idiot. Our handler will be here any second. Stay the hell awake._ **

_It does not stay the hell awake._

_The handler strides into the room with a brood of doctors; they come in packs after what **she** did to Zola. He lifts it off the floor by its hair, it swallows the pain in its head and the scream of rage in its throat and stands compliantly. It pulls its arms behind itself, gripping its elbows with its fingers. The handler looks at its body, turning its face, walking around it, examining its wounds, kicking apart its legs. The handler shoves it forward and it falls on its knees; **she** stands._

_Summer holds her head high even as her thighs shake with the cold. She turns back and gets an inch away from the handler’s face and glares straight into his empty blue eyes. “Try that again and see what happens.” The handler smiles when the cattle prod hits her side. He holds it there, while she looks straight into his eyes and bites back scream after scream._

_Its knees crack when it hits the floor._

_“As you can see, gentlemen, it’s entirely insubordinate.” He hits it on both of its sides repeatedly, then at the top of its spine. It sputters on the blood frothing at its lips. “The only way we get low-grade compliance is extreme violence, even with the wipes after every mission.” It spits, she chokes, it feels the wet drip off of her lips and it sees the pool of crimson on the floor, there’s blood on her hands. “The political and social climate is no longer safe to put risky projects out on the floor. We have run out of options. It simply heals too quickly. We don’t know how or why, we think it might it might be partly Rogers’ DNA, and partly its age.” He pauses, “Its brain is still growing, so it cannot be altered drastically enough for our purposes before it clicks back.” It feels a hand run through its bloody hair, she wants to bite the hand, it leans into the touch instead._

_“What about its pubescence? Have you looked at that being a factor, seeing as its female?” a voice asks. The handler makes a breathy sound as he strokes its hair **(a laugh, idiot)**. “No, no. That was taken care of years ago, Zola made sure it was neutered immediately.” The handler pulls it up by its hair so that its chest is on display, “We recently made this adjustment as well; helped it run faster.” The handler pulls it up all the way to its feet, turning it to the back left corner, towards the table._

_Its breaths turn shallow and it pushes against the handler, trying to climb over him. **Not again. Oh, please Dear God, not again.** “I’ll be compliant,” she screams through its mouth, “Please I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.” She begs as she tries to scramble away from the handler. She can’t. His grip is too sure, and even though she’s stronger than him by a mile, his hands don’t shake and he isn’t terrified. She sobs when her back hits the metal sheet and she feels the restraints click around her limbs (they’re new; double-plated so that she can’t snap free). Her mouth is stretched around the metal circle that presses down her tongue and the bag is tied over her face. Her hands clench in their positions when she feels the water on her skin, they always clean her off first. Another sob rises to her throat as the table starts to tip back, but she shuts her eyes under the bag, and takes in one last clean breath._

**_Is this ironic also?_ ** _It wonders as it feels the hose’s spray drift north, towards its clamped open mouth. **You asked whether I wanted to freeze or burn, and now I’m about to drown.**_

December 28, 2016

Summer wakes up squished between her fathers on their fold-out couch when the sun starts to glint off of Bucky’s arm. She wiggles a little, turning her face so its buried in Steve’s chest instead of facing the sun. On the other side of her she feels an arm move over her hip to rest on Steve’s back, pulling him and Summer closer to Bucky, who has obviously woken. Summer rolls over to face Bucky and presses her face into his neck. He chuckles when he presses a kiss to her hair. “Dobroye utro, myshi.” She breathes in his smell and nods. Then she crawls out from the cocoon of her parent’s arms, elbowing them both in various places and waking Steve in the process, and stretches, bending over in a handstand and walking to the kitchen like that.

“Summer.” She hears Steve call, “Be careful, honey, I don’t really like you doing that around the knives.” Summer stops walking and instead just holds herself in the middle of the kitchen like that. She hears footsteps so she turns around, still on her hands. Steve’s pajama pants and feet stop in front of her. He leans down and grabs her under arms, scooping her up easily and turning her up right, a frown on his face. “Good morning, S Dad,” She signs. His eyes soften when he sees the ‘dad’ sign, it’s still a new thing, and he pulls her in for a hug. “Good morning, darling. You hungry?” she nods into his chest, then tics twice. He kisses her hair and pulls away from her, giving her a little push toward the living room.

She walks toward the couch and fits herself into Bucky’s lap where he’s fiddling with the TV. She rubs her face all over him and pushes her head into his neck, he kisses her again. She stands up and walks into her room, passing all the half-opened Christmas presents all over her bed and floor and gets into the shower. She uses her new soap that Nat got for her; it smells like what beauty looks like.

Then she sits on the floor of the shower for a bit and looks at herself. She touches her soft skin, everywhere she isn’t scarred or metal feels like silk, counts her fingers and toes and the little freckles on her ankle and tucked into her knee and on her belly that Bucky says she inherited from the poor Irish in her. Steve says she’s lucky she didn’t get a honker nose like his father. Steve and Bucky both laugh; she likes their laughs. They fit together nicely.

She brushes her fingers where her upgraded metal prosthetics are gleaming under the water. Tony had fixed them for her personally, sat down and told when he was gonna touch and with what and why. Summer likes Tony, he always used to smell nervous around her until he fixed her prosthetics. She likes his metal heart the same way she likes Bucky’s arm; just like her.

She remembers them putting them on. Being thawed out, sprayed down, and they saw that her arm and half her foot were rotten, useless. So they cut them off and they sewed on the new ones and everything hurt when they put her back into training, a short intensive for her final mission.

_“You must kill the Winter Soldier. Do you know who that is?”_

She bangs her head against the side of the shower, the pain blocking out the memories she doesn’t want to think about. She stretches out her legs to and watches the muscles move, they’re fuller than they’ve been since they used to always have pantyhose and a skirt over them, fuller than they have been since they chased a little boy across a bridge that ended in a small carved out slice of hell under the country of Russia.

She shivers.

Summer pulls herself out of the shower, switching it off and drying off with a towel. She steps back into her room and meanders through her drawers until she finds some tight black trousers and a soft pink sleeveless top that flows away from her belly like a dress. She grabs a brush and hair-ties as she walks out of her room and back to the couch, plopping on the floor in front of Bucky, who hasn’t moved. “Braid please, Dad B.” she signs, handing him the brush and little rubber bands. Bucky smiles as he takes them, gesturing for her to turn around and watch the television. Summer leans back against his knees as he gently pulls the brush through her hair.

The last few weeks have been good for Summer. She doesn’t get sick after eating anymore, her nightmares are only once or twice a week, and she’s been in dance classes for a whole month almost. Right now the classes are on winter break, but she can’t wait to go back to them. Dancing is up there with hugs from Steve and watching television with Bucky on Summer’s List of Things She Likes to Do. Sam and Dr. Tower say that that is important, for Summer to have Things to Do, it helps with her tics and the nightmares.

A few days ago Steve and Bucky and the other Avengers had Christmas in the Tower, something that Summer hadn’t celebrated since she was ten years old. Sam, Nat, Tony, Miss Pepper, Bruce, Clint, Thor, and Miss Jane all came up to their floor of the Tower and showered Summer with gifts, she has tons of new soap and lotion and soft clothes, a few books, and a set of brand-new serrated steel knives that are fitted to be hidden inside the hollow part of her left arm. All of her presents are splendid; she threw them all over her room because she likes the mess and lights three out of five of the candles Sam got her at once because she likes to turn off the lights and dance only by candlelight.

Bucky finishes her braid and ties it off with a little blue ribbon. Summer stands and flips back over into a hand stand next to the couch. Bucky laughs and shakes his head, standing himself to walk into the kitchen. Summer leans back into a bend, cracking her spine as she watches the newswoman on the television screen.

“Summer, sweetheart, breakfast is ready!” Steve calls from the kitchen. Summer pulls herself up to standing and does a back handspring into the kitchen doorway, landing on her feet and walking into the room. Her parents are both sitting at the table in front of piles of toast, eggs, pancakes, potatoes, and fruit. Bucky is reading the newspaper as he sips coffee, and Steve is already digging into some eggs. He smiles when she sits next to him, grabbing a plate and piling on as much pancakes and potatoes as she can fit on her plate. Bruce and Tony said that her metabolism is as faster than Steve’s, mostly due to the fact that she has a combo of serum-enhanced blood and being a person that will eventually continue to grow because she’s not being starved and frozen for long periods of time. Once Steve and Bucky discovered what her stomach allows her to eat in pair with what she likes, they’ve had no trouble getting her to eat.

“Eto mylo Natasha yest' ty?” _Is that the soap Natasha got you?_ Bucky doesn’t even look up from his paper as he says it. Summer nods. “Milo.” _It’s nice._ Summer nods again.

“Chto vy sobirayetes' byt' do segodnyashnego dnya, med?” _What are you going to be up to today, honey?_ Steve asks, stretching his newly learned Russian around a mouthful of food. Summer considers. “Dance.” She signs around the fork in her hand. Steve nods, smiling. “Call Dr. Tower.” She continues. Steve’s eyebrows scrunch together; calling Dr. Tower is not a typical activity.

“Ty v poryadke, dorogaya? Mozhet li vash Papa ili ya mogu pomoch'?” _Are you okay, honey? Can your Dad or I help?_   Summer shakes her head, “I’m fine.” she signs, “Dr. Tower just asked that I call her when I remember things, for the timeline we’re making.” Steve nods again, and looks over at Bucky.

“Nu, vy znayete, vy mozhete skazat' nam chto-nibud', khorosho mysh'? Vam ne nuzhno bespokoit'sya, Da i ya ponimayu.” _Well, you know you can tell us anything, okay, mouse? You don't need to worry, Da and I understand._ Bucky says softly, looking at Summer meaningfully. Summer nods again, “I will tell you later. Dr. Tower needs to know first.” She signs earnestly. Both Steve and Bucky share a look, but then smile and nod back at her. 

Later, when they’ve cleaned up the breakfast dishes and are sitting in the living room after Summer’s morning nap, Bucky decides to grab a snack from the fridge. He stands and makes his way across the room, stopping when he hears her voice.

“Papa, ya pomnyu, moya Mama i moy Daddy i moy brat Skott.”  _"Dad, I remember my Mama and my Daddy and my brother Scott."_

Bucky freezes, foot halfway off the ground, and shuts his eyes. _Shit._

He turns back and sees that she’s looking right at him, straight in the eye. He expects anger, hurt, even fear. What he finds instead is sadness, and even worse, _empathy_. He walks back over to the couch and sits next to her, not sure if she’ll want him to touch her, but she immediately crawls over to him and suctions to his side like usual. He slips an arm around her and she curls herself into his chest.

“Mne tak zhal', mysh'. YA tak, tak zhal', chto ya ne govoril vam.” _I'm so sorry, mouse. I'm so, so sorry I didn't tell you._ She shakes her head where it’s tucked against him, and sits pulls away from him so he can see her hands. “I knew.” She signs, “I always knew, somewhere.” She points to her head, tapping the side gently. “Not your fault Dad B, not your fault.” She pets his cheek softly, comfortingly, “No choices. You had no choices. I know what it feels like to have no choices.” A small tear buds up in the corner of her eye, “You or them. No good choice. I understand, not your fault.” Then she begins to cry earnestly, pressing her face into her hands. Bucky’s eyebrows come together and he opens his arms, allowing her to curl into them once more. He puts his chin on top of her head as she continues to cry, and he just sits there, holding her.

His heart is absolutely broken for his little mouse, the fact that she is able to empathize with him so completely _kills_ him, makes him so angry that he can barely breathe. She cries for a little longer, then quiets, breathing getting slower and slower until she falls asleep.

Later they have a talk, the three of them, about what happened when she was first brought in to the Tower. She tells them about her prosthetics and the plan behind them finally unfreezing her after so long. When it’s over, Summer gets caught in a hug between the both of them, and for the first time in a very long time, she feels at home.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a nightmare :((( but cuddles from aggressively-protective teenage girls and disney can always make things better :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also moonlight on my mess™ of a One Direction/Stucky/Girls blog buckylouie.tumblr.com :)
> 
> EDIT
> 
> Hiiiiiii, so I feel like this story is underdeveloped and messy so I'm gonna be going back through it and adding stuff/new chapters! If there is anything you in particular would like to read, let me know and I'll try to work it in!

January 3, 2017

Steve wakes when he feels Buck’s breathing get harder.

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that it’s late, he can practically smell the early AM hours in the air, and from the way Buck keeps clenching and unclenching his fists in front of him Steve can tell his guy is having a nightmare.

“Buck. Buck, bud, wake up. Buck.” Steve whispers softly, pulling Buck harder against his chest and lifting a hand to smooth over his guy’s face. Buck doesn’t answer, just quietly thrashes a little more, his breaths sounding more like pants. Steve pushes away from where he was plastered against Buck’s back, and gently gets Buck to lay flat, touching his face and rubbing one of his shoulders. “Wake up champ, it’s ok, it’s just a dream sweetheart, wake up.” Buck’s eyes snap open and panickedly scan the room, his breaths still coming hard and fast, until they stop on Steve’s face.

“Stevie, we gotta go, they can’t find you here Stevie, you—” he starts to get up, trying to shake off Steve’s hands. Steve just shushes him and smooths his hands over Buck’s shoulders, pulling him close. “It was all a dream, bud. It’s 2017, sweetheart, it’s all over. We’re safe, I’m safe, we’re in the Tower in Manhattan, honey. It’s ok, it’s ok.” Buck goes easily into Steve’s arms, breaths calming where his face is tucked into Steve’s shoulder. They lay like that for a while, neither one of them inclined to move but not comfortable enough to sleep until Buck lets out a sigh and presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder before pulling himself back from Steve’s chest.

Steve looks at his guy, who has shut his eyes and is taking slow, deliberate breaths. “How ya’ doin’ sweetheart? You wanna tell me where we are?” he asks softly, brushing a lock of hair behind Buck’s ear.

“We’re in Stark’s Tower in Manhattan. It’s 2017. You’re safe.” He says haltingly.

Steve smiles, rubbing a hand on Buck’s shoulder “That’s good sweetheart. That’s real good. Can you give me your list?” Buck grimaces, but nods.

A week ago the phrase ‘gimmie your list’ had been added to Steve’s routine of calming-down-frightened/aggressive-supersoldiers. It was Sam who had suggested it, over coffee, while Buck had been napping on the roof and Summer was running off steam in the gym.

“Well what do you do now?”

Steve sighed, “Mostly I ask if either of them want to talk about it; they almost never do. Then I ask if they wanna go back ta sleep, they almost never do. Then I ask if they wanna shower then watch a movie. They always do.” He shrugged, “It works. I just. I feel like I’m not, like, helping by pacifying them with hot water and singing cartoon characters.”

Sam’s cheeks scrunched up, “You don’t need to be so critical of yourself. You being there, you telling them someone is willing to listen, asking them what they want, that _is_ helping. It helps way more than they probably let on.”

“But I feel like they aren’t getting any better. Shouldn’t they, I don’t know, have less of them?” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “I just want them to feel better. I feel so useless.” Sam put his cup down, reached across the table, and smacked Steve on the back of the head.

“Ow?” Steve asked, rubbing where Sam hit more out of reflex than actual pain. Sam made a dad-face at him, “What have I told you about the ‘u’ word in reference to yourself?” Steve rolled his eyes. “I thought you wanted me to be more ‘active and open with my feelings’.” Sam raised his eyebrows and lifted his hand in threat. Steve laughed.

Right then, the door opened and slammed, loudly.

Summer walked in, guzzling from a water bottle. She was wearing a pair of those tight pants Steve _still_ wasn’t sure if he liked her wearing or not, and a baggy t-shirt with the old SHIELD logo on it that Stark had gotten her for Christmas. She walked into the room, probably meaning only to wave at Steve, but then upon seeing Sam her eyebrows shot up and threw herself into his lap.

Sam laughed, smoothing a hand over her sweaty head, “There’s my favorite niece! I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you.” Summer rubbed her face all over his neck, face ticcing in excitement. She sat up in his lap, signing to him everything she had done that day and asked how ‘my-dance-teacher-your-sister-miss-Erin’ was doing. After he had assured her that he would definitely tell Miss Erin that Summer says hello and gave him one more _extremely_ damp hug, she sashayed off to take a shower.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Steve said fondly once she has left the room, “She still doesn’t get the whole ‘gym equals smelling bad’ thing. Always tries to lay on me ‘n Buck after we box.” Sam waved a hand good-naturedly, “It’s fine. She may be a little ripe, but she’s too sweet to resist.” He stared at Steve for a minute, thinking. “Ask them to give you a list of the things they love most.”

Steve cocked his head, “Huh. Like things they like to do? Or people? Or—” Sam stops him with another hand. “Just things they love. Nouns and verbs they love. People, places, things, and activities all welcome.” Sam smirked and took a sip of his coffee, “That sound ‘helpful’ enough?”

Truthfully, ‘gimmie your list’ went over spectacularly; meaning that both Summer and Buck vowed that they were EMOTIONLESS and DON’T LOVE ANYTHING but were later very grateful and cuddly that they had to.

“Um. You, Summer, watching the sunrise, reading, watching you draw, running with Summer, dancing with Summer, sleeping next to you. That enough?” Buck asks, face tense and a little uncomfortable. Steve nods, smile broadening, “More than enough, champ. What’d ya wanna do now? You wanna go back to sleep, you wanna shower? A movie maybe?” Buck considers, his eyebrows getting close together as he thinks. “Shower, then movie? That one with the flying carpet and the blue ghost?” Steve smiles and nods.

Buck leaves the room and get into the shower, and Steve goes out to the kitchen to pull a few sandwiches together in case Bucky decides he’s hungry. He places them on a plate and bring it out to the living room, putting them on the table next to the couch. He then goes to the glass cabinets on either side of the television where they keep all their movies, searching until he finds Aladdin and pops the disc into the little slot.

He hears quiet padding of feet behind him, but doesn’t turn. “That was a short shower, you didn’t have to get out right away honey I would have waited for you.” He stands up and turns, jumping a little when he realizes it’s Summer behind him and not Buck.

“Nu privet dorogusha. Pochemu ty ne spish' tak pozdno?” _Well hello sweetheart. Why are you up so late?_ He asks, opening his arms for her. She walks over to him and buries her face in his chest, murmuring, “Da, eto moy papa khorosho? Yavlyayetsya li on grustnyy?” _Da, is my Dad ok? Is he sad?_ Steve smooths a hand down the back of Summer’s head and drops a kiss onto her hair. “On prosto byl plokhoy son, med. On v poryadke. My budem smotret' fil'm, khochu smotret' s nami?” _He just had a bad dream, honey. He's okay. We're going to watch a movie, want to watch with us?_ She nods into his chest and then pushes away from him, plopping on the couch and curling up into a ball.

Buck walks in a minute later, wearing a different set of flannel pajamas and one of Steve’s shirts, hair still wet, but face looking a lot more relaxed. He walks up to Steve the same way Summer had and shoves his face into Steve’s chest, then he goes and sits on the couch, making a surprised noise when he sees Summer there. She crawls into his lap and leans her head on his shoulder.

“Dobroye utro, moya mysh'. Razve eto ne nemnogo rano dlya malen'koy myshi, chtoby byt' iz posteli?” _Good morning, my mouse. Isn't it too early for a little mouse to be out of bed?_ He says teasingly as he kisses her on the forehead. She smiles shyly and tucks her face into his shoulder, then sits up, face suddenly serious.

“Vy v bezopasnosti, moy papa. YA ne pozvolyu im zabrat' tebya.” _You are safe, my dad. I will not let them take you._ She says firmly, looking directly into his eyes, “Ty moy papa. Moy. Oni ne budut schitat' vas.” _You are my dad. Mine. They will not take you._ Bucky’s eyes are soft as they look back into hers, and he grabs each of her hands to kiss her knuckles. “Spasibo moya malen'kaya mysh'. YA chuvstvuyu sebya ochen' bezopasno s vami.” _Thank you, my little mouse. I feel very safe with you._ She nods at his answer, looking at his face as if she’s trying to find a lie. She must not find one because she turns back around and sits on his lap, grabbing a two sandwiches, handing one over to Buck, and beckoning Steve over with the other one, patting the space next to her on the couch.

Steve shakes his head, smiling as he watches two of HYDRA’s violent supersoldiers quietly munch on their sandwiches and murmur the lyrics of ‘Arabian Nights’ to each other in Russian.

There are worse places he could be.


End file.
